 
### 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 is a pattern ya see, not many people see it, or know about it, but I know.' Albert's eyes were wide with psychotic delight and the fire danced in them, 'In that forest there is a great bird, black as night with a beak as blue as the ocean – I know, I have seen it – and this bird is a sleeper. It sleeps for three years until its hungry and when it wakes it takes flight and heads east out toward the unknown lands. Two days later, black clouds, black as the bird itself loom from the east and whatever stops the normal clouds from leaving the forest has no control over these black carpets of death. On the third day it rains and rains and rains; turning the desert a lush green. Aye tis a sight to behold ya figure.'

'Sounds it.' Martin said pouring the two men another shot each. The both downed it simultaneously and it tasted better.

'Aye, so the rains come every three years and when they do I mark the occasion on the side of my hut with a single mark.' Albert pointed over to his hut and to the opposite wall where "Rag and Bone Man" was written. 'I shall leave it as a surprise, Martin. Something to look forward to in the morning.' The old loon hacked and laughed; the cigarette hanging on one lip as if its life depended on it.

The desert went quite except for the crackle of the wood. The sky was clear tonight, the stars bright and Xerxes Flame shone from east to west filling the sky with a cloudy orange and blue beauty. The night was getting late and Martin could feel the weariness begin to take him.

'What else did the Sorcerer say, Albert?'

Albert placed the lid back onto the bottle and heaved a sigh. 'You remind me of him, Marksman. It's the eyes. You have the same gaze, a killers gaze me old pa would have said. But I can tell you already know that so to end yer torment and to get ya off to bed I shall tell ya.'

'He didn't talk much. It was odd, it was like he was here, but not here. Like he had other things going on and was watching them as he talked to me. Occasionally he would say something that I didn't understand and had nothing to do with what we were talking about, but I didn't make much of it. He had something too, Martin, something hidden beneath his cloak. He didn't show me it but I could feel her.'

'We spent the night like this, under the stars palavering about this and that. About my life, about his life and about you. He talked about you and when he did his eyes were fierce, boy oh boy he has some business with you Martin. Anyways, he put his hand to my chest, he pressed hard and told me of the cancer that grows there. He showed me, Martin, images flashed in my head of how I would cough myself to death. And it would be a hard long drawn out way to go. One I don't want. He could see I didn't want this so he asked for a coin and a favour.'

'Sounds too good to be true.'

Albert smiled and his face looked younger and a lifetime of worries seemed to evaporate. 'It does doesn't it? But I accepted anyway. He promised that if I help you he will take my cancer away and I shall live out the rest of my days here and my passing will be in my sleep. When you have lived as long as I, Martin, it's time to call it quits and take an opportunity when it shows itself. Trust me, Marksman, when Old Man Time takes a grip of ya, he sucks ya dry and as my old pa used to say – when you get old and wrinkly never ever, whatever you do, never trust a fart.' With that the old loon hacked and laughed and hacked and laughed and disappeared behind the hut to sleep with old Fanny.

Above him Old Mother and her Nine Daughters sparkled and Martin watched them until he too stood, stretched and had himself a good night's sleep on a creaky old bed in a stinking old hut in the middle of butt fuck nowhere.

For the first time in ages Martins sleep was dreamless and when he awoke he instantly regretted sleeping so deeply.

Stood over him, with a wicked glint in his eye was a man he knew from Ritash. In his hand he held an ancient gun and that gun was pointed right between his eyes.
The Book of Stephen - Just Follow Orders

1

The hunting party had left Ritash numbering ten – many more than usual – in search of the traitor Martin Doyle. Their hunt had taken them from the lush green forests of home to the harsh nothing of the Wastelands. The men had walked for hundreds of miles, their horses long since carrion for the desert.

Sat around a poorly made campfire situated on a small plateau of land jutting from the Wastelands like a giant molehill, Stephen, Watchman for the Eleventh King scanned the faces of the five other remaining Watchmen. All he could see was fear and exhaustion. The reason for their fear was twofold; the game they were playing wasn't as straight forward as they had originally thought and the Black Sorcerer was alive.

The game.

It had no name and because of their stupidity and disbelief, four Watchmen; Drake, Lombard, Hughes and Davies had all died. They had forgotten...no misunderstood, the rules and now their bodies graced the hot dead earth of the Wastelands.

Stephen couldn't remember how long it had been since the Sorcerer had visited them, days and weeks seemed to blend together like milk poured into a steaming mug of coffee. He could remember what the Sorcerer had said as his body curled and licked like the flames of the campfire that were engulfing him.

Let us play a game, Watchmen. The game has no name and only one rule. The aim of the game is for no more than five of you to reach the Marksman, because five is the key. This means that five of you must find another path to walk along. The rule of the game is simple: play or die. So it's each man for himself.'

Stephens's mind's eye flicked back to that night and saw the black garbed man standing in the campfire, his image swaying and contorting and his words spiralling through the air. At first the Watchmen thought it a dream, a vision caused by the Wastelands fury but as the days went on and their number decreased it became all the more apparent that what they had seen in the fire was as real as their own names and the threat the game posed could not be ignored. The Black Sorcerer was alive and for some reason; tormenting their small group. Cursing the hunt of the traitor. The mere thought of the Black Sorcerer and what he brought with him should be enough to scare the toughest of men but for Stephen the thought of the power and the sheer strength of the Sorcerer and the Wretch King, for whom he does his bidding, it brought total fascination.

The silence of the group was pleasing to Stephen. Being a Watchman meant leading a very singular life with rules and regulations to follow and only one other person's welfare to take care of, the King. You awoke alone, dressed alone and went about your business alone. You have no friends, no lovers only whores. If you work with another Watchman then the task beset you will be tough and usually requiring travel to far off lands. If like this mission you were required to work in a group numbering ten then you could guarantee whomever or whatever you were hunting required much bloodshed. Usually a far lesser number would return. With four Watchmen already dead and the Marksman almost within trapping distance, Palaluka was certainly being kept busy.

2

A harsh nudge on his shoulder brought Stephen out of his dreamless sleep and back into the chilly night air. With a silent gesture the man that had awoken him, Jessie, ushered Stephen to the lookout point situated roughly thirty meters from the camp and to an area that over looked the valley below them. With aching joints and a numbing headache Stephen stood, took hold of an already lit piece of wood and some kindling and slowly walked over to the cold dark rock which doubled as a chair as well as a look out position. Stephen placed the kindling onto the dead earth and then lit it with the piece of flaming wood. Making two trips Stephen constructed himself his own little fire and hearing Jessie slump down in his once recently departed bed he too sat upon the rock like the three others before him and awaited the rising of the sun which signalled the end of his watch.

Stephen was a gifted Watchman. Still young at twenty-four but with a wise head on his shoulders. He could sense many things. See many things that no normal man could see. Stephen was as close to a Marksman than a Watchman could get and it irritated him that his tutor had not allowed him to raise himself to that level. He was an excellent tracker, as deadly with a gun as any Marksman and as ruthless as the most bloodthirsty Watchman. Only out upon the mission and during the hunt could Stephen let his true skills show.

He could smell the sweet aroma of cooking meat. He guessed that Martin waited for them to make their move and by the end of tomorrow either the Marksman would live or he would die. It was in the hands of the Fates and in their hands any outcome was possible. Stephen knew though, that his fate would lead him elsewhere, that he would not see the Marksman, Martin Doyle, ever again.

Stephen scanned the stars as he thought of his own life and the parts of it he had missed out on; a wife, lovers, friends, a true home. Above his resting body the nine daughters flickered wildly; a reminder that all things go on and that nothing is set in stone. He enjoyed his life but always knew that he wanted more. He was in a way lost. Looking for something he didn't know existed; looking for something he didn't even know was owed to him. He yearned for a true calling, a higher reason being. Answers to unasked and unknown questions.

A shiver ran down his back as a soft breeze wrapped itself around him. How the wind on the Wastelands was like the breath of the dead scared Stephen. He was not a superstitious man, no Watchman was, but this place always seemed to bring with it death and sorrow. No story of the Wastelands was complete without someone getting lost, getting bitten or slashed or being swallowed up by some ancient demon.

Behind him, somewhere far off, four bodies were rotting because they too had fallen to the desert, all of them sucked down into its hot core and then spat out like seeds from a melon.

Stephen could still see the monster that had taken them; its massive body made up of the hot, harsh sand span wildly like a storm. Its head was that of a raging bull and its eyes seemed to be made up from the fires of hell. The Watchman had ran, no guns had been drawn however it engulfed four of them as they deviated from the path, thinking their own way better than that of their betters. They paid for their stupidity with their lives. The demon chewed on the skin and sucked out the souls, blood and bone falling to the hardpan. Then, without care, the demon beast had spat them back out upon the Wastelands and as quickly as it had appeared it disappeared leaving a harsh wind and the foul smell of death upon the air. Never before had Stephen seen a demon and he lay awake for night after night, terrified that the demon would return. His fears were still shared by the remainder of the group for they all knew that sooner rather than later there was going to be another death.

But Stephen was about to find out that just because another Watchman had to find another path that didn't mean that one of them had to die.

3

The night rolled on; the chill of the evening desert growing. Stephens's eyes focused on the sun rise two hours away and his mind was far from his station.

'A Watchman caught off his guard. The King would be most disappointed.'

Stephen stood and turned around. The voice had come from a black garbed figure, lost in the shadows of the rocks and only visible when the light from the flickering fires illuminated him.

As Stephen spoke he lowered his right hand toward the gun at his side. 'Who dares..?'

The black garbed man waved his left hand to silence Stephen, 'No need for such words, Stephen, Watchman of the King, we are well met on this chilly night.'

Stephen leaned in closer recognising the voice behind the shadow, 'you again, Sorcerer. Have you not had your fun?'

A hiss of a chuckle emanated from inside the hood and slowly the Black Sorcerer approached. 'For the time, Stephen, call me Samson, for that is my name after all.' With that the Sorcerer lowered his hood and revealed himself. His eyes were wide and white, his skin pale but red in the fire light; his mouth full of sharpened teeth. 'Now, let us sit by the fire, Stephen, and talk of your future.'

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 Stephens'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 scratched 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.'

John stepped forward, his boots scuffing on the sawdust floor and he leaned in close to Cathy; a closeness that looked too familiar. He spoke softly, 'The gentleman is a Watchman, dearest. Treat him so.'

Stephen saw Cathy's eyes widen like he had so many times before on so many other faces.

'Well fuck me. All the way out here? Why?'

The Deputy stood back and smiled. 'All in good time, Cathy.' John turned to Stephen, 'In the meantime I hope we can call you Stephen, for such formalities tend to be forgotten way out in the wilds?'

The Watchman nodded. He couldn't give a damn what they called him. By the Fates, now that he was in some sort of civilisation he realised how dirty he felt and he yearned for a bath.

'Good. And now I shall bid you all a goodbye. A Deputies work is never done.' John winked at Cathy and nodded at the Watchman, 'I shall see you both this evening after my shift is done.' His gaze then shifted to someone stood at the far end of the bar. Stephen looked, turned, and followed Johns gaze.

3

Only his whore lover, Clare, came close to the beauty that stood in front of him at the Travellers Last. It was as if an Angel had appeared before his eyes and all around her the filth and wretchedness of the bar only made her shine more. Stephen was lost in an eternity of a single moment and it was an eternity he would have loved to have stayed in for the rest of his life. He may have been none weary; his legs ready to buckle like trees in a gale but all that floated away in an instant.

The Watchman scanned her body like a painter admiring his work. He knew he must have looked like but he couldn't help it. Like his murderous skills or his hunters talent scanning a beautiful woman and taking in all her luscious curves came easily to Stephen. It was as in built as all the others: she stood just shy of six feet tall with hair of such a shimmering blonde it made him yearn to run his fingers through its long locks. Her face was slender; her blue eyes were like wells you poured yourself into, deep skies full of wonder. Her neck was long and well-proportioned and her shoulders held a feminine strength that he liked. Her green vest, dirty with the day's work, hung quite low revealing two pert breasts in their prime, their milky whiteness Stephen begged to hold, to lick, and to kiss. Her stomach wasn't flat but had a fullness of health that was pleasing to see. Her blue jeans followed the curve of her body and just above the belt line a small tattoo revealed itself. Her legs stretched down to the floor and it seemed to take an age to follow them.

Stephen took in a deep breath to control himself. She was truly a woman to love. A woman to want. A dream. A vision. An ancient Siren who would beckon sailors to their doom. Stephens's fugue ended with a far off voice echoing around the bar. At first Stephen didn't pay any attention to it. He only started taking in the words when the girl finally reached the bar and started cleaning the glasses. Stephen took in a deep breath and with a lick of his lips he gathered his thoughts together and tried to think of other, more pressing matters.

Watching the Deputy walk away he noted the glare between John and Cathy and knew that tonight their lust for each other would be quashed and that their sweaty bodies would entwine under the moonlight. Sunlight from the burning disk in the sky reflected off a shiny ring wrapped around the Deputies fourth finger.

Cathy brushed back her hair and took hold of the dirty cloth which she had been using to clean the dirty glasses as Susie moved behind the bar, her head hung low a slight tint of redness upon her cheeks which seemed to infuriate Cathy.

Stephen slid his travel bag from his side and heard the salon doors swing open and shut as the Deputy left the Travellers. He listened hard to the footsteps as they walked along the dusty hardpan until finally they vanished. It wasn't long before the profanity began again.

'Right then, girl, you get on with the glasses and getting this fuckin bar ready whilst I show this Stephen here up to his room and run him a nice hot bath.' She turned her head toward the traveller. 'How does that sound, sir?'

Back in Ritash such behaviour would not be tolerated, such language frowned upon by professional women and anyone when in the presence of a Watchman, but John had been right, formalities have no place in towns like this. Stephen nodded. 'Thank you. A hot bath and a shave is exactly what I require.' He took a quick glance at Susie but she was busy cleaning those damned glasses. He hoped she had been looking at him and he was a little upset that she had paid him no attention what so ever. But why should she; he was dirty, smelly, unwashed and dishevelled. An odd sickening feeling filled his gut at the thought of this girl not wanting him. It reminded Stephen of being a spotty, horny teenager with a crush on anything with a pair of tits; wanting to stick his perpetually hard dick into anything that had a hole.

'Aye. A good bath and a clean shave is what ya need. The room will cost ya half a gold a week, the bath is free and the meals and drinks we will tally up at the end of ya stay,' she turned her attention to Susie quickly before Stephen could respond, 'and Susie, make sure that you clean yourself up before the dance tonight I don't want ya looking like some sort of fuckin vagrant whilst you is singing your little ditties.' Cathy turned her head back toward Stephen, an eyebrow raised almost to her hairline.

'Right then, if you'd like to follow me, I'll show you to your room and then get the bath running.'

4

Stephen lit the small smelling stick on the windowsill, walked over to the steaming hot bath and carefully stepped in. He hadn't spent too much time in his room, it was as non-descript as the desert he had just waked from.

The bathroom was small, furnished only with a basin atop an old wooden unit, a clothes rack and a towel stand. The wooden floor was smooth, walked that way by hundreds of feet over the years. The wooden walls and ceiling reminded Stephen of the old Sauna houses back home. If he could call it home. The Watchman walked from the window, over to the copper bath that stood in the centre of the room and carefully stepped into it.

As he sunk down into the deep bath, the water refused to permeate through to the skin; the dirt of the Wastelands putting up a brown barrier of filth. But eventually the dirt gave way and his skin was renewed with the clean, how water. The steam filled his lungs and Stephen knew that in a couple of hours he would have a deep cough to contend with as the dirt and dust tried to free themselves from his lungs.

The Watchman closed his eyes and allowed himself to be drift away. He forgot about all the things he had seen and heard over the last few weeks and months. He had reached his first goal, and was pleased to be off the track for a while. His mind cleared and he could feel the sleepiness start to wash over him like a soft tide washing over sand. For a moment he was alone and free.

If only for a moment.

5

'The water good for ya?'

The voice Stephen recognised but it didn't take away the shock. He slid up the bath, water sploshing from the sides and splashing his face and for a moment he was blind.

The voice chuckled at the sight, 'That's a Marksman and a Watchman I have surprised in the last couple of days!' the Black Sorcerer tapped the fidgeting Stephen on the shoulder, a gesture to calm him and to poke fun. 'So, how is it?'

Stephen, moving to the right, leant over and grabbed a towel, wiping his hands and then his face so that he could better see the man to his left. 'How's what?' Stephen blurted out without thinking as he steadied himself.

'The water, Stephen. How's the water' The Sorcerer stood back and gazed upon the Watchman, awaiting his response it seemed with almost bated breath.

Stephen sighed. 'Fine, the water if fine. In fact everything was fine until you surprised me!'

The Sorcerer neither snarled nor grinned. His face, slightly obscured by his cloak was blank. Only his eyes glistened and the Watchman was drawn to them like a moth to the flame.

The Sorcerer moved over to the window and careful began to play with the smoke rising from the scent stick. Stephen thought back to the lonely miles he had just walked and the unknown journey that lay before him and that he owed this man his life. 'I apologise if I have offended you. Do you have word of my next task, Sorcerer?'

Samson swirled the smoke between his fingers, his eyes seeming to contemplating the meaning of life as he did. He remained silent for some time as he played with the smoke. Just as Stephen was about to ask again, the Sorcerer turned and from his cloak his removed the black orb.

'Do you know what this is, Stephen?'

The Watchman looked at the black orb in Samson's hands. It had a glow to it, a fire seemingly burning at its heart. Something warm irritated the back of the Watchman's head, a burning pain that felt like the coming of a storm.

Swallowing hard Stephen shook his head.

The Sorcerer smirked. 'That's surprising, Stephen, I thought you would have heard of her.'

Stephen shook his head as the burning intensified. He was becoming agitated, especially at the burning itch on the back of his head. He voiced his annoyance, 'I don't know Samson. Is it a magic crystal ball like the old gypsy's use in the forests?'

'Don't be so obtuse, Stephen. This stone, this magic ball as you put it, is what saved your life and what gives your pathetic life a fresh start and fresh opportunities?' Samson stepped away from the window and toward the bath. As he got closer the room grew darker, shrinking with each step, and with each step forward the baths water dropped in temperature to a point where small ice crystals formed.

Stephens's heart began to race and he tried to jump from the bath before he froze to death. All the while the room seemed to be getting smaller and the light darker. Just as the Sorcerer was about to walk into the bath he disappeared. Stephen looked about, still trying desperately to climb from the bath, but he couldn't see the man in black. Just as Stephen was about to try one more time to free himself from the icy grip of the water the Sorcerer appeared by the window, the room was bright again with sunlight and the water was a warm as it had been.

'These stones are everything, Watchman,' Samson continues as if nothing had happened, 'they are creation itself and hold the keys to ours and our new king's futures.'

Samson placed the dark glowing orb back into its hidey hole under his cloak. The irritation removed itself from the back of Stephens head and he took a deep breath.

'I take your silence as an apology.'

Stephen nodded.

'Good. Your first task is a simple one.' Samson turned and pointed one old gnarled finger out of the open window. 'Go into this rotten old town and find the lad called Tommy. He's a simple thing but shall serve his uses. Ask him to take you to the witch.'

'A witch?' Stephen interrupted.

Samson looked back to the Watchman and placed his hands by his sides. 'She has a weapon that you will need if you are to do the bidding of our King. Once you have the weapon she will tell you how to get to the boy we have spoken of and if required help you upon that path for it will be shut to me.'

Samson stepped away from the window and his eyes met Stephens. The once Watchman sunk down into his bath, tried to remove his gaze from that of the Sorcerer but found that he couldn't. Samson continued, 'Don't fail me, Stephen, this is a turning point in our journey, a pivotal moment in our future and one you can't fuck up.'

Stephen sniffed and held his right hand to his heart, an old habit from an old time. 'I shall not fail you.'

Samson leant forward. His face almost touching the face of the Watchman. The two men's eyes met and Stephen fought hard not to break the lock. Whatever the Sorcerer was looking at, looking into, he wanted no part of it but knew he couldn't look away.

Within a heart beat the Sorcerer stood. 'Good, good. Chop, chop now. No dallying on this one old boy. Two days should suffice,' the Sorcerer looked out of the window and inhaled hard, 'Yes, two days will be plenty. This town won't know what hit it.'

Stephen took a deep breath; this bath had turned into a nightmare. He had no more words for Samson so simply nodded. The Sorcerer nodded back.

'I know it can be tough, Stephen, trust me, I know. So as a measure of good will as it were, and as a little extra for me, do take it upon yourself to fuck the living daylights out of that young filly, Susie.' Samson closed his eyes and continued to talk, only this time his voice seemed far off, distant, 'Yes, have your way with her. You will need to buy her with coin but don't let her know that. There has to be a certain amount of love in one of you. Yes, that will do it. That will be a fitting end...'

And with those final words the Sorcerer disappeared.

Stephen looked about the room and eventually sunk back into the bath. The room remained empty apart from Stephen and the random voices from outside. He thought back over the brief and eventful visit from the Sorcerer and chuckled to himself.

Buy her with coin the sorcerer had said.

There has to be a certain amount of love there.

Riddles weren't the Watchman's favourite but a few coin for a night with Susie seemed okay. He could make any girl swoon and if needed fall in love with him. Especially way out here when the closest thing to a good looking man was the sign above the barbers.

Before his water got too cold, Stephen washed himself quickly. His time was coming. His time to shine and his time to prove himself were almost upon him. But before that he had to buy a girl and find a Tommy.

6

Before leaving the Travellers Last, Samson Little, wanting to play a little game, hovered above the young girl Susie. She couldn't see him, no one could for he was hidden in the darkness that Arda produced. He uttered some ancient words and scattered dust from his pockets over the oblivious girl. The particles covered her body and bored their way into her skin. She scratched a little, but that was all.

Samson sniggered at his own majesty and then was gone all together.

Susie pictured the Watchman, Stephen, and from that moment on she was besotted with him and would be until the end of her days.

7

In the summer, yes this desert swept town sees seasons, the sun stays high but sets quick. As it drops it cast the world in long orange shadows which suck the heat from the soil and chills the air. At around six o'clock, with the Watchman up in his room in the Travellers, Cathy and John stand upon an overlooking mound of hardpan known to the locals as Hangman's Hill. The view isn't all that impressive; harsh desert to the south, east and west with a filthy little town to the north. But it wasn't the quaint view the two lovers were here to discuss. It was something far worse.

'So they are coming tomorrow? They know what they have to do?' Cathy said looking at the soil beneath her feet.

'Yep. First thing.' John replied.

Cathy inhaled deeply exhaling as she spoke. 'And she still doesn't suspect anything?'

'Nope. Even if she did I don't think she would say anything anyway. Too much of an image to protect. You know how she is.'

John turned his attention from the town and gazed at his lover. He held her hand using the other to lift her head so that he could see her better. He continued. 'Not long now and we can end the secret meetings and the quick fumbles. Not long now and we can leave this fuck awful town and settle elsewhere.'

Cathy smiled and nodded but she wasn't convinced and John picked up on this. 'What's the matter?'

'The Watchman, John. A fucking Watchman in Rockfall. Don't you think it a convenience that a Watchman turns up one day before the Quints do? Especially after that fat fuck Jameson caught us the other night.'

'Maybe. Maybe not. And we don't know if we were seen. He was as pissed as old Morey on a Saturday night. Anyway, we have come too far to stop now.'

Cathy released her slight grip and run both hands through her hair. 'We have to be careful, John. Tonight I shall watch him like a hawk and you do likewise. He has given me some coin for a night with Susie so that should keep him occupied once the lights go out.' She turned and now she held his head with both her hands, 'You suspect anything we tell the Quints to fuck off back to their hidey holes and we wait for the Watchman to leave before we try again.'

John didn't answer but pulled her in tight and they embraced watching the last of the suns light disappear over the horizon. Above them Old Lady and her Nine Daughters twinkled in the night's sky and the Hunters moon shone light a second sun.

8

Two miles to the north, in a dark hut, sat a dark woman thinking dark thoughts. Patience had long since lost the looks that Cathy still clung too, and with those lost looks went the men wanting to dip their pink stick in her. But she now had other things to keep her sweet. It was one of these sweet things she cradled now, its pulsing yellow glow shining in her lifeless eyes, its weight making her ancient muscles strain. But she cared not. The yellow ball between her legs was enough to keep her ancient womanhood sweet; for the time being, anyway.

She watched the townsfolk from time to time, especially the two up on Hangman Hill. Watching them two fuck reminded her of times long past when she was the temptress and men yearned to get into her panties. She spat out a wad of phlegm and rubbed it into the dirt with her foot. So many men but none of them ever came close to taming her. None of them could ever replace the fulfilling power of the magic she gave up everything to master.

The orb pulsed and it flashed images of the weary traveller into Patience's mind. I bet he could have tamed her. A Watchman from the South; a real man for once in this town of runts with a real man's intentions. He excited her, filled her with a yearning she hadn't felt in many years and probably would never feel again.

She squirmed in her chair and adjusted herself so that the ancient orb sat in her lap, her hands free to grab a knife, roll up her right sleeve and cut the skin deep. Raising her arm she put the cut to her old dry lips and drank deep, the blood dribbling down her chin. Her eyes rolled back in their sockets and she began to mumble to herself the yellow light flickering with every word.

Her eyes returned and the pulsing stopped. The old witch licked her lips and unrolled her sleeve; the blood already starting to clot on her arm. Coughing hard; for she hasn't spoken in a while, she looked down to the orb and stroked it caringly.

'Someone comes to pay us a visit, Petra. An Oath Bearer, do you believe! And he seeks the gun of my father.' Her voice was low, almost lost to the sound of desert crickets and wild cats screaming at the Hunters moon. 'He comes to me but he knows not what I am or what I can do.' The old woman smirked and closed her eyes mumbling an ancient rite until the moon was high and the night was fully upon the town of Rockfall.

She hadn't noticed that behind her, in a cupboard unopened in decades, an ancient soul contained in an ancient weapon was awakening. Jonah has arisen.

9

The young woman Susie didn't really belong in this town. Were she born just a few hundred miles in any other direction she would have been treated like a piece of fine silk and only the richest, most influential men would have stood a chance to bed her. But she hadn't and so any thoughts she had of being treated like a princess had to be shelved, kept away from the folk of this desert town.

She had freshened up after completing her daily routine, a routine she completed every day and would continue on doing until the day she died no doubt and as the two lovers embraced on top of Hangman Hill so she opened the doors and letting in the first of the revellers. There were the usual faces; Morey, Keef, Toby, Mad Margaret and Mo and a few others that only came here once a month and only when they needed too, the beer being at its cheapest was also a help. The first Friday of the month was always busy in the bar, the beer and whiskey flowing freely allowing the full range of debauchery Rockfall is capable off to be set free. It was a tradition that went back to the days of Rockfalls original settlers and was a celebration of the barrelling and the selling of oil.

Susie hated it. Like she hated most things, no everything that this town had to offer. Most of the time she would prefer to be anywhere but here but on these nights she would even take the sweet freedom of death if it meant she would be free from this place. Much like the other girls in this town she hadn't had a great upbringing and couldn't rely on an education to get her anywhere. What made it worse for her was that her parents had died when she was young leaving her in the care of the only woman that would take her in; Cathy. She had been raised fairly enough but it was when the blood started to flow from between her legs that Cathy had shown her true colours.

As Susie served Keef his usual frothy beer she felt in her pocket the solid gold coin that Cathy had given her and signalled that she would spend another night underneath another man as he thrust himself into her. The only saving grace she had was that at least this man, this Watchman from the South didn't look as dirty as the others, didn't look as dead as the others she has had to please in the past.

As she tried to clear her mind and maintain focus on the jobs at hand the batwing doors burst open revealing John and Cathy, and much to Susie's disappointment, Jameson the local Sheriff. They trundled into the bar one after the other, Cathy leaving the two men after she had shown them to their table in the corner under a huge painting depicting the town in the grand days when the black oil flowed freely from its hills.

Cathy joined her behind the bar and the usual conversations started about the state of the town, the way in which the sand is starting to take over, the deaths, the births, the bored young lads becoming trouble, Tommy the simpleton and on rare occasions Patience, the recluse old woman, would even be spoken of. It was all very boring to Susie, but to keep away from becoming gossip herself, she joined in with nods and grins where it mattered. Even flattery when it suited, especially for Jameson, the fat bastard. Thank fuck, Susie thought, that she was the property of a Watchman tonight and so wouldn't have to put up with his sweaty, bloated body grinding up against her and as if on time there came footsteps on the stairs and her man for the night came waltzing down from his room.

He was a good looking man; even if a bit travel worn, with the air of a city man and the grace of a dancer. As he walked down the stairs he drew attention from the fifty or so folks in the bar. They no doubt already knew who he was and what he was but it wasn't every day that a Watchman comes into town, especially since no crime had been committed. Hushed voices became whispers and Susie served a few more patrons as the Watchman glanced around, found a spare table in the shadows of the stairs and sat himself down.

Susie looked over to Cathy knowing what she must do and Cathy gave her an approving nod. Pouring a fresh beer, followed by a chaser of whiskey she carried the two glasses over to the table much to the chagrin of the sheriff. Her hands were shaking slightly, more than they would if this was a regular paying customer. Her belly twisted in knots at the thought of talking to this stranger. Cathy had warned her before about city men, about their strange and bewitching ways, but she had blown them off, but now, with a city man right here in front of her she could see what Cathy meant; there was something strange and bewitching about him and it tugged at her womanhood.

The Watchman acknowledged her with a nod and a smile and she placed the glasses down on the table offering him first the chaser, which he drank in one gulp and then the beer which he merely placed to one side.

He looked at her, those deep set eyes boring holes into her soul. 'Thank ya, Susie. Busy night?'

Susie swallowed hard, her tongue swelling to twice it normal size. She was all of a sudden aware that she had no answer for him; there were no words ready to come out. It was as if he had asked her to explain why the stars twinkle or why the wind blows. Time was speeding by now and it was becoming awkward.

'Take a breath, Susie. I'm not here on official business.' He smiled and the bewitching had begun.

'It's not that,' Susie exhaled and now fully capable of speech, 'This is the first time I have spoken with a man from the city. Plus, usually when the coin is spent on me.' She trailed off quickly.

'I understand. It's usually toward the end of the evening. I just thought it would be nice to have some company and maybe learn a few things about this place before I move in.'

Move on? Susie's belly dropped at the thought. It was like she was fourteen again and trying to hold back the crush she had on an older boy. What did it matter that he was leaving, what did she expect, that they would fall in love and he would live here with her forever. Or better still; run away together.

Come on Susie, get it together. Just entertain this guy for a few hours, bed him and then move on like he will. Like they all will until you are a toothless slack old crow that only the desperate want to fuck.

The Watchman looked around the busying room and to the horde waiting upon their drinks at the bar.

'As much as it would please me, I feel it best that you head back over and help Cathy. The horde is getting restless.'

He smiled at her and winked. Her hands trembled again and she hated herself for it. Susie went to say something but couldn't and simply smiled and headed back over to the bar where Cathy was waiting anxiously.

For the next couple of hours she served beer, laughed when required and flattered where needed all the while feeling his eyes upon her and knowing that he could see her watching him. A few times she floated over to him with a fresh beer or a chaser and a meal of a meat patty and some salted fries. They would small talk, laughing occasionally and have odd elongated silences broken only by the shrill of Mad Margaret or the cries of help from Cathy.

In the corner of the room, sat with the Deputy and the Deputies wife, Jameson, the local Sheriff sat with his hands crunched tight and his eyes fixed upon the Watchman. It wasn't every day that you had a visit from an Oath Bearer and it wasn't every day that that Oath Bearer would take the girl you liked to fuck and fuck her himself. What was worse was that the Sheriff would now have to go home, to his ever fattening wife and fuck that instead.

10

'Quite the charmer, aren't we, Oath Bearer?'

Samson's voice spoke in Stephens mind causing him to spill some of his beer on the floor.

'I shall be quick, Watchman. It seems as though the Witch knows you are here. She has one of the Orbs and it has taken her and so has given her powers almost equal to my own. I don't think the mad old fool knows how powerful she is but still......... Do not be afraid of her, but be mindful.

'We do not need the Orb she carries yet, it and she together have uses, but she will try and take the girl Susie and what is inside of her. This you cannot let happen under any circumstances. Do not let her have the girl. Barter, yes, especially for the weapon she offers you, but deliver, no.'

'What weapon? Why does she want the girl?' Stephen asked.

But there was no response and that was a good thing as stood in front of him was the Deputy and a rather red faced and bloated Sheriff.

11

'Good evening, Stephen.' John began, 'Hope you are having a pleasant evening?'

The Watchman nodded and raised his pint mug.

'May I introduce Cliff Jameson, our Sheriff and mayor.' John motioned to the rather fat man to his left and Stephen could see a sense of embarrassment at having to introduce such a fat bastard to such a well esteemed visitor as he.

The Sheriff put forward his hand, 'Watchman, may I be one of the first to welcome you to our town.'

Stephen stood and took the hand of the Sheriff. The two men shook, but it was awkward; the Sheriffs hand clammy and so big they were hard to hold.

'It is a pleasure, Sheriff. I was happy to come across this place such was my journey upon the Wastelands.'

Jameson grinned awkwardly; he no more wanted to be here than a prisoner in his cell. 'Aye, a bitch of a place is that desert. Many a man has been lost out there.'

There was an awkward silence between the three men, all stood there like prize winning bulls each one not sure of what to do next. Acting the part Stephen gestured for the two men to sit and join him but both men shook their heads.

'No, no, but thanks all the same,' Jameson said the redness of his face intensifying, 'Busy night tonight. I only came to say my hello's and to ask if I may trouble ya for the reason you have come to our little bit of paradise?'

Stephen remained standing as he answered, looking the Sheriff in the eye as he did. 'Passing through, is all, Sheriff. No need to worry.' He left a slight pause looking and leant in close to the Sheriff. His scent was horrific; a mixture of sweat, beer and cheap man perfume. 'Unless of course you have something to worry about, Sheriff?'

Jameson and John both coughed under their breaths. Johns face reddened slightly but the Sheriff looks as though he was going to have a full melt down. His entire body, and there is a lot of it wobbled with anger and frustration.

He responded, his words coming out fast, phlegm flying as well as his multiple chins swaying. 'Nothing here but good honest folk, Watchman. No need to start ruffling feathers or pulling teeth in this town.'

'Then you have nothing to worry about, Sheriff.' Stephen sat back down and took a sip of his beer not taking his eyes from the two men. 'I am here for a couple of days, mainly to get some more provisions together, plan my next move and then head off once more into the Northern Territories. I hope I won't be of any inconvenience?' It wasn't really a question, more a rhetorical statement as Stephen knew what the only answer could be, but there was something shifty about both the Sheriff and the Deputy. Not that it mattered much in the long run. But still, a Watchman's duty is never done no matter how far from the path they have strayed.

The Sheriff merely nodded and stomped away, heading toward the doorway that led to the outhouse. John made his farewells and headed back over to the table where a small group of men had now set up camp.

Stephen scanned the bar, keeping his ears attuned to the individual voices that echoed around the wooden walls. So far there had been no mention of this "Tommy" chap but the night was still young by all accounts.

12

The Sheriff waddled out into the sticky night and relieved himself in what past as a toilet by the side of the Travellers Last. He coughed loudly, spitting out a large snot filled wad onto the floor. The taunts of that poor excuse of a Watchman still coursed through Jameson's veins and made his blood boil. They were simple jabs, but no one made jabs at the Sheriff. Not if they knew what was good for them.

'A trip to the Hill.' Jameson said to the piss stained wall in front and he swayed a little his huge wait almost going over if it wasn't for the wall to his right.

'And he took yer girl.'

He coughed again, this time swallowing the gloop and with a final push a small trickle of piss came from his penis. He waved the old feller about and then zipped it back behind his fly.

'Fucking Watchman.' He said sniggering and the old Sheriff waddled back into the bar and consumed enough beer to fell a wild beast leaving his old wife happy.

13

The night wore on, seeming never ending; the singing was relentless as too was the consumption of beer and spirits. Stephen couldn't blame the people for drinking so heavily, these towns didn't offer much in entertainment anymore, ever since the black liquid had gone dry places like this died slowly, screaming as they did. The death of a town would start slowly, much like Rockfall was now, and then the death would hasten as soon stores and bars couldn't sustain themselves on such meagre pickings. It wouldn't be long before the scavengers moved in and then it was too late; a once bustling town full of life would be lost, stricken like a rudderless ship and consumed by the desert.

And then the Clickers would come and any one left would regret their decision to stay.

14

The night came to a close at around two in the morning; the last of the drunks leaving in a storm of yelling and screaming, Cathy locking them out and bolting the doors quickly as if to keep some ancient beast away.

Stephen could feel his body becoming weary, his eyes heavy and his mind lazy. The tiredness of the journey was creeping upon him, the beer and whiskey pushing him into a deeper state of sleepiness than he had anticipated. The Sorcerer had said to have this young girl, but he doubted his own ability in this state. He chuckled to himself; as a younger man there wasn't enough beer to stop his prick getting stiff and him being able to fuck all night long. But times were changing. Even with Susie's looks he knew that tonight would be a quiet one and he would sleep long into Tomorrow.

There were no words between Stephen and Susie as she ushered him upstairs and led him into his bedroom. There were no words as she undressed him, no words as the two of them lay naked together in bed. The candle she had lit flickered and their shadows danced across the walls in their own act of love. Even in the soft light he could see in her eyes that she understood that he was tired; that whatever journey had been on had taken it out of him. But there was something else, hidden deep inside her beautiful eyes. There was a glimmer of disappointment and the disappointment was mirrored in his own.

She stroked his face and he could feel his eyes drop as the blackness of sleep came upon him.

'Rest now, Stephen. Sleep well and dream only of me. Your gold coin is still good for the morning.'

15

The sun hadn't risen when Stephen awoke but the sky was a blood red its signal that the day to come was going to be hot and dusty.

By the time the sun was fully up and the sky a wash of azure blue the two hot sweaty and satisfied bodies lay intertwined and the job the Sorcerer had wanted Stephen to do was done.
Thirsty Birdies

1

Stephen knew the girl liked him, it was obvious, but he didn't care for her. She was fine looking, a dream like body was hard to come by especially way out in butt fuck nowhere. She would make many a man happy if she was ever to wed, but it would not be him she wed no matter how much she would have it so and knowing the strange ways of a woman, she would beg it to be so when he came to leaving this fucking hell hole.

But despite all that he needed her for the time being, she would have her uses and what did it matter if he strung her along? It would give her something to treasure for a couple of days if only to be brought back to earth when he leaves. He remembered the Sheriff and how he been flustered the night before and guessing by the Sheriffs obvious disgust at the Watchman, he was meant to bed this little flower last night so at least Stephen had done her that favour. Stephen would get his fill of her over the next day or so and as a plus he wouldn't have to pay and that was okay with him. After that who cares?

2

He watched her slowly wake up and stroked her hair softly as she moved in closer to him and snuggled. It was strange to him that a girl would give herself up so quickly; the women back home were far tougher quarry, even those who accepted coin for their womanhood. Stephen held her tight; his obvious excitement pushing against her backside.

He tested the waters however obvious they may be, 'I will run out of coin at this rate.'

Susie moved her hand from her belly and grabbed hold of his erect penis, stroking it gently. Her eyes were ablaze, her cheeks blushing and her breath deep. 'You know as well as I do, Stephen, that there is no need for any more coin.'

She rolled over so that her body was on top of his. Susie eased his erection into her moist hole and she kissed him deeply; moaning as she lowered herself down upon his shaft. 'One more time and then it's time to get up.'

They fucked hard and quick.

In the distance, behind closed doors and rotten wooden blinds, Patience was laying in her own bed, legs wide apart and her body pulsating with pleasure. On top of her, working hard, was the young simpleton Tommy; his face red with effort but his heart happy as he entered the dirty dry hole of the witch. Patience may be old and dried up and her looks shot to hell and back but she still liked the prick as much as any woman and with a little witch craft Tommy was the perfect one to give it to her.

When Tommy had finished his rotten duty he got dressed, walked out of the hut and down a rough trail. He walked back into town not knowing what he had done, what was done to him but Tommy did know that he would get to see his only friend and that would make for a happy Tommy. Yes, a happy Tommy indeed.

3

Susie, now dressed, her hair pulled back into a ponytail and a glow about her person opened the door to Stephens room and turned to face what she hoped would be the man that would get her away Rockfall.

'Anything else before I go?' She bit her lip slightly and cocked her hip to one side. It was a tragic look.

'I can think of a few things, Susie, but you have work to do.' Stephen replied, winking and playing the game. The young woman laughed and went to leave.

'Actually,' Stephen continued making Susie turn quickly, 'I am looking for someone. Tommy? Have you heard of him?'

She nodded. 'Yeah. I know him. Simple lad, harmless really. Why?'

'Nothing bad. I have some things that I need doing around town and I heard last night that he can be trusted. Is that true?'

Susie nodded. 'I suppose. Tommy isn't the brightest lad but he means well. You can find him walking the main street during the day running errands for the Sheriff or whoever needs him for the day. I'm sure he will do whatever you want him to do especially if he tell him what you are.' Susie pointed to the holster placed neatly on the bedside table. 'Show him that and I guarantee he will run your errands for less than a copper coin.'

The Watchman grinned and standing; stretched out his still travel weary body. By the time he was ready to move on his body would have recovered but not enough to make the journey an easy one. He walked over to Susie and kissed her deeply. She released her grip on the door and used his body to prop herself up. When the kiss was she silently walked away and he closed the door behind wiping his mouth dry from her spit.

He dressed quietly and efficiently; wearing the clothes he had worn the night before and he packed his dirty ones into his frayed backpack making sure to take out the rest of his belongings. His life was laid out on the bed and it was a depressing sight; shaving stuffs as well as a blackened bar of soap, six boxes of bullets for his weapon as well as the cleaning tools and oil required for its workings, there were a few packets of jerky, a tin mug blackened by the fires it had rested upon, an old map that was no longer of any use, spare laces for his boots, two shirts, two pairs of trousers and his badge of office which was dulled and no longer shiny. Though what he travelled with was worth a small fortune, especially the bullets, it seemed so little for a great Watchman such as him. Though he wasn't a Watchman now, was he? His life had derailed somewhat since he set out after the Marksman, Martin Doyle. He travelled upon a different path now and though the title could still be carried with him until the great border came and his world faded into nothing he knew that soon the fear that his title brought him would be lost.

But he wouldn't be lost. What he was wouldn't be lost and should the Sorcerers promises come to pass then what he would become would be feared more than he had ever been in the past. He wondered for a moment as he left the room what his new King had planned for him, what he had planned for the world and what his future would hold. But it was fruitless to think of such things for he still was unsure of what he was to do in the here and now. It wasn't like it had been back home, his adult life was set in stone the moment he decided that he would follow in his father's footsteps and take the oath of a Watchman. From that moment he had been trained, then tested and finally given the Badge of Office by the King and set about his tasks to defend the realm of his once great King. But those duties were petty, often meaningless. What Stephen head yearned for were the great battles that his father and his father before him had fought in. Stephen had dreamt of being in tales of wars and that would be told for generations to come but tales were told about Watchmen that set their guns against drunks, rapists and looters. No, Watchmen were meant for greater deeds than this and this is why he had followed the Marksman into the desert and then later followed the promises of the Sorcerer. His new King would set the world ablaze if he needed to and Stephen would be at the heart of it.

Or so he hoped.

4

Stephen walked out of the Travellers Last giving a customary nod to Cathy as he left. The heat was building and with no wind; the main street of Rockfall was becoming a sweatbox. Standing outside the empty bar he scanned both left and right holding his right hand above his eyes to shield them from the glaring sun. The main street was quiet with only a few of the locals wandering from place to place stopping here and there to talk or to adjust their protective clothing. Knowing what was too his left, Stephen headed off toward the centre of town using the shadows of the overhanging shop fronts as a poor protection. The old boardwalk creaked and groaned with every footfall.

He wandered past a few long since closed stores – Keefs Meat Emporium, Langs Hunter Wares, Rag and Bone Man (the O of the Bone a skull and crossbones) and an odd looking cattle market with nothing in the rusty stalls but a mutant goat and a half dead mule. The stench coming from it was horrific. Up ahead, surrounded by a rail to tie a horse or two at was a small water well much like the ones you would see in a fairy tale. He guessed that most days, cooler days, that this would be a meeting place for the locals to come to and was once a place of importance; especially when the black gold had flowed. But now with the numbers dwindling and the desert taking over the well was no doubt starting to dry up and the locals only came here when they had too.

Stephen left the shaded boardwalk, the heat hitting him like a hammer to the face and headed over to the well. Rockfalls Main Street cut through the centre of town, with the well positioned at its end and the road encircling it turning back on itself. The Great Road, which once linked a majority of the towns and cities was somewhere off the east. It was odd that the main road through a town wasn't the Great Road, but Stephen didn't dwell on this. At the head of the Main Street and set back a little further than the houses was the Court House. The old symbol for law was bolted to its front, its once golden sheen sand blasted to a poor imitation. The court house was small, built of wood and was once a glossy white. But it hadn't seen a lick of paint in what looked like decades. But such things as a fresh lick of paint were a luxury out here. It had though, unlike any other building that Stephen could see in Rockfall or had seen for quite some time; a copper roof. Only in Ritash had he seen such things and then only in the rich quarter. He admired it as his boots scuffed up the dirt of Main Street and the crickets played their instruments in the bleached long grass.

There was no shade at the water well but the heat wasn't too bad now that he had been in it for a few moments. He had, very recently, been through much worse. Just to be sure, Stephen lent over to check the water level.

'Do ya need some help there, mister?' It was an odd voice; childish but throaty and it came from a shaded area to the right of the court house.

The Watchman looked over, again, shielding his eyes. He could make out the silhouette of a man hunkered between the court house and a rundown wagon stop.

'Is there any water in this old hole?'

'Aye. Bit milky, but-sokay.' The silhouette stood up and kicked a stone against the wall of the court house. 'It's a long way down. For some coin I can save yer arm, mister?'

Stephen wiped some sweat from his brow and looked about him; there was no one save the silhouette. A Watchman did the work himself for fear of losing face, but out here such things were trivial.

'Be my guest, Mr...?' Stephen knew, but best to be sure.

'Tommy. You can call me Tommy. And yous?' The silhouette walked forward, the darkness fading to reveal a tall man, thin and pale with large eyes and a long face. He scuffed as he walked, the boots he wore no doubt too big for him. Upon his head was a ragged bush of ginger hair which seemed to contain more dust than the Wastelands. He had long gangly arms and on his back he carried a raggedy back pack with a small shovel looking implement attached.

Stephen raised his right hand touching the first finger to his forehead; a simple salute from simpler times and one that dated back to the ancients who had once carried his gun.

'My name is Stephen.'

Tommy mirrored the salute and laughed as he did.

'Cowboys do that. You a cowboy mister?' He reached the water well and began to lower the bucket into the blackness. The rope looked almost threadbare and Stephen thought that if it were to break so too would the people of Rockfall. The iron workings squealed in pain as Tommy turned the wheel.

'Not a cowboy, not as such anyway.' Stephen grabbed the long shirt he was wearing, slightly unbuttoned at the bottom as to reveal the gun at his side. 'I'm a Watchman.'

Tommy's eyes grew wider, swallowing up the world and he almost lost the bucket to the depths. 'Well fuck a doodle dumb!' He exclaimed and clapped his other hand against his thigh.

The young man then began to sing a simple rhyme and it was one that Stephen had heard many times;

'Riding on horses, guns at their hip, Rode the hard cowboys releasing the whip. They are men, not boys; they are strong and untamed. With hearts of Kings and talents famed. Be warned ye thieves ye rapists and curs, for a cowboy comes just listen for their spurs. Riding on horses, guns at their hip. The cowboys will kill ya and death be a trip!'

Stephen and Tommy laughed together until from the water well there came the sound of the bucket splashing into the water.

'Up she comes!' Tommy yelled and began to turn the old wheel in the opposite direction.

Stephen leant against the cool rocks of the well. Strange to hear such an old rhyme out here, especially from a simpleton such as Tommy. He was intrigued. 'Where did you hear that, Tommy?'

'Me ma, before she went up to see pops and sleep the long sleep.'

Stephen nodded; it had been his mother that had sung that old song to get him to sleep and then had sung it to him when he was a bit older so that he began to understand what his father, what his grandfather did for a living.

'My mother sang it to me too. Guess we all had the same dreams at some point.' Stephen could tell that Tommy didn't have a clue what he was talking about; he had turned his attention back to the task of lifting the bucket back up from its watery grave. But it was true; as boys didn't us all want to be cowboys, lawmen or great warriors, our deeds told for generations our paintings hung in halls?

As the sun beat down on the two men a couple of crows began to circle overhead, their cries like that of the dying.

A final scream of pain from the wells iron works brought the bucket up to the right height for Stephen to grab hold of it and cup the cool water into his dry mouth. The water tasted fine, if a little milky in colour and he offered some to Tommy who drank almost as greedily as Stephen. When both had finished Tommy placed the near empty bucket on the floor and took some steps back; gesturing for his new Watchman friend to do likewise.

'Watch, Mister Watchman.' Tommy whispered.

Stephen watched as the two crows swooped down, knocked over the bucket and began drinking the water that they had left.

'Thirsty birdies.'

Stephen smirked as when the birds had finished they gave one final scream toward the young man and then flew away crying as they did. It was the strangest act of kindness Stephen had ever see and seemed totally pointless. But yet he admired it.

5

'Whys you all the way out here, Watchman? Long ways from home.' Young Tommy asked.

Stephen lowered his voice and moved his head on close to. Stale sweat filled his nostrils. 'I need your help, Tommy. I need you to take me to the witch.'

Tommy stood back and shook his head. The movements were harsh his hair flopping like a rabid rabbit.

'Come now Tommy. Will you not help a Watchman? Will ya not be my apprentice for a while?' that perked the interest and Tommy ceased his shaking and replaced his grimacing face with one full of smiles and hope.

'Really? A Watchman's apprentice!'

'Aye, Tommy. You have my word.'

Tommy jumped up and down on the spot laughing all the while as he did. 'Wowzers. Prentice to a cowboy. Do I get a gun?'

Stephen chuckled, 'Not yet, but maybe before I leave I will let you shoot a rabbit or two.'

Tommy ceased his jumping and leant over clutching his knees and panting hard. He coughed for a while and Stephen lightly patted the young man on the back and said softly, 'Now, will you take me to the witch, apprentice?'

The young man looked up to his new master and grinned. 'A-course I will. But don'ts be callin er a witch. She don't be liking that. Just call her Patience.'

Stephen gave Tommy the simple salute, 'Thanks for the advice. Now, let's gather ourselves together and I shall follow you Apprentice.'

6

The two men headed off, away from the centre of town, past the houses and small holdings until it seemed as though they were walking back into the Wastelands. Soon Stephen could make out a small trail ahead and it weaved itself away from the foreboding desert and off in-between two large mounds of dirt and long grass. The path went on for and twisted here and there. Across a few deep valleys, over devilishly sharp razor bush and through thick long grass. It would have been a hard trail to follow of it wasn't for Tommy. Patience was well hidden out here.

The sun was now high, the crickets had slowed their usual hectic song and only the sound of their combined footfalls on the hardpan could be heard.

Ahead, Tommy stopped and scuffed his boots waiting for his master to catch up. The young man was quick on his feet and Stephen was grateful for the slight rest.

'Much further?'

Tommy pointed over the shoulder of Stephen. 'Nope. Count yourself to twenty as you walk and you will see an old wooden gate. That's her place.'

Stephen sensed some hesitation. 'You aren't coming?'

'Nope. She doesn't care much for visitors. I only comes here when she sends for me.'

'How does she send for you, Tommy?' Stephen took a swig from his water bottle and offered some to Tommy.

He grabbed the bottle and drank hard. As he handed it back he touched his forehead with one of his long bony fingers. 'She calls at me from up here. Tells me what she wants up here.'

Stephen nodded a silent acceptance. Then trying not to show his concern he smiled and patted his apprentice on the shoulder.

'You have done well, Apprentice Tommy. Your next mission is to go back into town and buy me some dry food; enough for at least a month on the road, some wax for waterproofing and a thick blanket.' Stephen reached behind him and grabbed a small money pouch that had been hanging there. 'This coin should be enough. Whatever is left go grab yerself some grub and I shall meet you back at the Travellers this evening just as the sun sets. Understand?'

Tommy stood upright, his chest out and his chin high. It was a comical sight but there was something honourable about this young man; some kind of light shone in this young man, a light that was missing from many others. Missing from him.

'I understand, Watchman.' He nodded and then within a heartbeat he ran off back the way they had come leaving the Watchman alone with the crickets, crows and long grass.

He walked further down the path and counted to twenty until he came to a small wooden gate hanging free on one hinge the garden it protected long since left to die. Past the prickly bushes, overgrown grass, lavender and devil stick was an old hut; it's dark exterior a harsh contrast to the white wash sky. Its wooden shell seemed to defy the notion of time and that all things must come to an end. The windows were boarded up and to the untrained eye, the hut could easily be mistaken for a unused store house or at best; somewhere to store animals during the hottest of days.

Stephen walked past what was left of the front gate and as he closed in on the front door he brushed past the lavender that thrived out in these parts and its scent filled the air giving it a sickly sweet aroma. It was an unsettling sensation; to be surrounded by decay and ruin but to be filled with the smells better suited to one of the bath houses back home. He reached the door and carefully rapped upon its rotten centre and as he did the sky turned darker, the crickets fell silent and far off in the distance he could hear the crows screaming and they screamed and they screamed until the door creaked open.
Tiny Clouds for Scurrying Rats

1

She had been awake since dawn. Sat opposite the door in her rocking chair, she went back and forth surrounded by the gloom of her once bright home. Cradling the orb in both hands her thoughts were as wild as the garden she had left to rot many years ago. She had viewed the Watchman walking from the town, helped by her little friend and now her old chest heaved in and out as she waited with baited breath for the knock at her door.

When the knock came she glanced briefly at the door casting her ancient magic upon its weary frame. The door opened.

'Come in, Watchman, if it would please ya.' She croaked, her throat as dry as her old womanhood.

Stephen entered the hut tentatively, unsure of what he might find. The building was rank, stinking of sweat, death, animals and old sex. The room he walked into was large, once it had been a living, dining and cooking area but now it was wretched, full of rubbish and decay. His eyes scanned the woman sat in the chair opposite the main door but she was hidden, her scrawny body in shadow, he could tell though, that she was hiding something beneath her shawl and she was holding whatever was under there tightly.

Patience knew what he sensed and she raised her head, her eyes wide, and her mouth showing the beginnings of smugness.

'Thank you, Patience. My name is Stephen, I am a...'

'I know what you are, Watchman.' Patience interrupted, 'I knew what you were going to become even before you did.' She stroked the ball hidden her lap as she felt it pulse in her mind. Petra was waking up and sooner rather than later she would need feeding.

Stephen, still stood in her doorway like a whore waiting to be plucked by the next payer, slid his small back pack from his side and dropped it onto the floor. Small dust motes floated up; tiny clouds for the scurrying rats and though he didn't want to he turned to close the door.

'Leave it open, me boy. Too dark for your pert eyes if you were to close that old thing. Best it is left open.'

He turned his attention to whatever she had hidden beneath her shawl. He was reminded of the Sorcerer and how he had secrets hidden beneath his own black cloak.

'Better for whom?' Stephen asked.

'Ha!' Patience exclaimed. 'You know who. I would offer ya a chair to rest yer tired backside upon but as you can see this old house aint what it used to be. So we shall dispense with all the bullshit, Watchman, or whatever it is you are now and get down to business shall we?' She leant back in her chair soaking up the atmosphere and confusion she could see building in this traveller. He didn't have a clue what was going to happen to him. Much like she hadn't all those years ago, before the dark arts and before the lust for more took her over.

'Business?' The Watchman asked.

'Aye, that's right. That old cunny Sorcerer sent you here to retrieve something from me. He thought, much like you are thinking now, that you will takes it from old Patience, the mad old cunt, without leaving her with nothing but a bullet hole in her head. But you are wrong about that.' Patience smiled and blew a small breath of air toward the Watchman.

The stinking breath reached him and what was once a small breath turned into what felt like an iron fist; smashing him hard in the chest. He slumped to the floor, his arse hitting the boards hard causing him to yell out in shock. The old boards creaked and groaned but they didn't give way.

Breathing deep, gathering himself together, the Watchman slowly stood; patting the dust from his trousers. In the darkness Patience's eyes were a blaze with joy. 'But as you can see, Stephen, I aint some prissy little slut you can wine and dine and poke with her mighty pink stick. You is gonna have to pay up, or fuck off.'

There was a momentary silence between the two; even the crickets had fallen silent. It was a silence Stephen knew well; the great breath before the plunge into chaos and ruin. Patience revelled in it, but was somewhat disappointed in the man stood before her; not once had he gone for his gun.

'You're wondering why I haven't gone for my gun, aren't ya?' Stephen asked stepping further into the building his shadow overwhelming the old witch.

Patience was reminded of all the others that have been cocky around her. Fools to the last and they never, ever learned. But this one would be different. There was something about him; an aura surrounded him unlike any others she had seen before. Well, maybe one, but he had soon found his end.

'What do you want?'

'I am here to collect a weapon and then be on my way.'

'I know.'

'Then why ask?' Stephen spat and Patience could see his regret as he braced himself for another pounding.

But she wasn't going to that. 'It's out the back in the bedroom. Top of the wardrobe, under an old sheet.'

Stephen walked further into the gloom and headed through a small doorway at the back of the large room the two of them had been occupying. The bedroom was very dark, lit only by small slits in the wooden boards that covered the windows. The smell of sweat and sex was worse in here and Stephen felt his stomach turn as he thought what had gone on in here to produce such a stink. He pictured Tommy and the witch and then quickly pushed those images to one side. The bed wasn't made, clothes were strewn all over and what was visible of the floor was as black as the night's sky.

In her chair, knowing what the Watchman was thinking, the old witch chuckled. 'Age may take many thinks from ya, boy, but there are some itches that always need scratching, if ya get me?'

Sadly Stephen did get her, but he didn't respond. Something else had caught his attention.

2

He reached over and shifted to one side the old dusty sheet that covered the weapon. Dust flew in his eyes and he wiped at them quickly fighting back the cough.

The room was growing hot, the darkness somehow intensifying even though the sun was still high. He was all of a sudden extremely self-aware and overwhelmed with a feeling that he was surrounded by another being. Not a man, not a woman but something ethereal, long dead but not long gone. It was something that should have died millennia ago but has clung on no matter what the cost. His hands became clammy and his stubble itchy.

Stephen swallowed hard as his eyes re-focused on the revolver that revealed it's self from the gloom. As he reached out to grab it, there was a feeling as if the gun too was reaching out for him. When his hand met the gun and the gun met his hand an ancient killer met a new killer and the world would never be the same again.

3

'What the fuck is this?' Stephen mumbled as he took hold of the gun and felt the weight and the feel of the old piece.

'That is Jonah. He be one ancient cunt, mark my words He comes from a time where great tubular hulks flew in the sky and men worked in glass towers that reached high into the heavens.' Patience voice seemed far off, unimportant.

'Is it alive?'

'Aye.'

Stephen left the bedroom and walked back into the main room. The light was better in here and he could see the gun now. It was of typical design; wooden grip, long barrelled. It had been converted at some point; the traditional six cylinder casing had been replaced with a much larger eight cylinder giving the whole gun a rather comical look. The metal work was covered in old markings that Stephen could not make out, however to his eyes they seemed to glow ever so slightly. Surprisingly it weighed nothing. He span it a couple of times and opened the cylinder to check the calibre.

'Takes whatever you put in it, Watchman.' Patience remarked; her grip on the orb becoming tighter.

Another voice spoke to Stephen now, the words were quiet; almost nothing and he couldn't make them all out. The voice was that of a man, deep, resonant like a far off rumble of thunder, it was practically unintelligible.

'You can hear him, cant ya Watchman.' She was excited now and leaning forward she adjusted herself so that the orb between her legs was resting on the chair.

'Yes, but I can't make out what it is saying.'

'You will, in time. But now the price you must pay.' Patience moved aside the shawl revealing the orange orb that she had been keeping hidden. The glow encompassed the room and made Stephen shield his eyes with his free hand. It was like a second sun was rising.

'You have Petra.' Stephen squirmed as he felt another tug on his mind. But this tug was not a man's, it was a woman's; it tugged at him, and then eased back releasing its grip caressing him as it drifted back. The orange light dimmed ever so slightly, enough for the two of them to un-shield their eyes.

'I have her; she has me, who the fuck knows. What I do knows is that this girl gets hungry and it aint no beef or pig that will keep her happy. She graves what only I was once able to give her. But times have moved on and old age has crept on me like a cat chasing a mouse. People don't come here no more. They fear what lives in the hut at the edge of the desert.'

She covered the orb back up with her shawl and eased herself up. Patience hobbled over to the Watchman her eyes not leaving his. Stephen was shocked at how small she was, how thin and frail and wretched a person could become. As much as he wanted to though he didn't back away.

When the two were as close as they could get she leaned up and grabbed hold of his face with one of her dirty hands. The stench was almost unbearable.

'Jonah is her only salvation now. Petra is the strongest of all the sisters. If ya don't keep her happy then she could end this world, and any others, with but a single breath. When ya kill with that gun the soul leaves the body and finds its way into Petra's mouth. The more kills the happier the Petra and the safer we all are. Kill enough and the gun can fall silent, for a time. But the two are connected, ya savvy? Cause and effect.'

Stephen pushed her hand away, leaned over and picked up his small pack. Patience scurried back to her chair and sat down hard.

'That gun will bring you everything you ever wanted and you won't think twice about pulling its archaic trigger once it takes a hold of ya. Even when Petra has had her fill that metallic cunt wants to take more. Nobody is safe. Not even yer precious Sorcerer and that reptile Barnabas.'

Stephen wiped away the sweat from his brow, looked once more at the weapon and quickly placed it in his back pack. Jonah uttered something but Stephen couldn't make it out. It was like trying to hear a voice through water.

'Time to be leaving, I think.' Stephen uttered as he turned and walked through the doorway.

'Don't deny him, Stephen,' Patience yelled, 'Don't try and hold him back. He will seek out another and then you will be one of the souls Petra chews on!'

4

Peering into the orb, seeing futures that may or may not come to pass, Patience spoke ugly things to her only companion left in her miserable existence. Petra spoke back to her, softly, like a lover after the act had been undertaken. It spoke of the girl, Susie and of what the Watchman had left inside of her. It spoke of how she wanted the little one, needed and then pleaded for Patience to get it.

It was the only way to continue. We can't trust the Watchman. It was the only way to stop her turning the world red.

5

Stephen headed back into Rockfall following the rough path he had been on a few hours ago. He hurried at first, the vileness of the hut clinging to him, but eventually the smell left his nostrils and the sickness in his gut left.

We shall start off slow

We shall start off easy

Maybe one or two

You can't ignore me forever, not if you want to live

He climbed a small outcropping and headed down into a shallow valley. The heat was easing now, the time seeming to run faster out in the wilds but it was still hot. Ahead was a derelict shed slightly off the main path but close enough that there was no chance of losing his way. The main door, bleached the colour of bone was bolted shut, the lock and chain as rusty as the water wells iron works but even with all his strength he could bust it open. Instead he hunkered down in the shade of the shed and placed his back pack between his legs.

The gun had fallen silent so he took the opportunity to eat a little jerky and take in what had just happened. She was a tricky old fool that was sure. Back in the day she would have been a troublesome resident of this place; respected for what she could do, especially the healing aspects, but feared. If he looked back he would no doubt see news articles of missing people, children and animals with all evidence pointing to the witch but not enough to convict. Even if there was want no way a fat old Sheriff and a limpy Deputy gonna attempt to take down someone like Patience.

Stephen took one final swig and behind a bush made his water.

Don't think I've gone, Watchman. I'm still here.

'Go fuck yerself.'

Now, now. No need for that.

Stephen lifted the back pack and took out the gun. The markings had disappeared replaced the gun metal he was used too. Apart from the larger casing it was just a regular revolver. Well, as regular as one of the ancient weapons could be. Compared to the shoddy handmade guns made by today's ironmen these were like diamonds in a sea of mud.

'Jonah.' It was a strange name, old, one of the first men Stephen had read about. He un-holstered his usual gun and removed the six bullets; placing them into Jonah's casing leaving two spare holes.

That's it. Baby steps. I will ignore the two missing slugs.

Stephen closed the casing and spun it. It was clean sounding with an even turn though he would use his kit on it tonight just to be sure.

Don't scrub too hard

'That's enough, Jonah. Let's be clear, here. I shall kill; I have no issues there for I can always find a crook or two but I will not have ya spouting off every two minutes if it does please ya!'

Tetchy, tetchy, but okay. I can be quiet, but I can have my uses. For instance, with yer eyes closed, turn, point me at two o'clock just below shoulder height

'No games.'

No games. Do this and I shall remain quiet until called for

Stephen breathed out and rolled his eyes before closing them, turning, aiming and firing. The explosion from the gun was monstrous, echoing through the small valley and causing dust from the floor to bellow up like some terrible storm.

Open your eyes oh great warrior. Your thanks will not be required

Stephen opened his eyes using his spare hand to shade them from the intense sun. He couldn't quite believe what was ahead of him and his stomach dropped at the thought that he hadn't seen this coming and once again that he had been saved by someone other than himself.

Not twenty feet away, slumped against a rock, blood pumping from a hole where its heart had once been, covered in old robes and pieces of bolted on metal work was a sub human creature known to the locals as a Clicker. Its pale twisted face as shocked as Stephens, its crooked arms swaying from the impact and its sightless white eyes as lifeless as they had been in life. Its bowed legs gave way and it hit the floor hard, dust spooling in the hot air. This pestilent creature clicked no more.

6

It was well past five before Stephen walked through the batwing doors and into the Travellers. Susie had been waiting, somewhat irrationally for him to return and now that he was back she poured him a beer and had it ready as he approached the bar.

He didn't look at her, focusing his attention on the beer and ensuring every last drop was poured down his throat. He wiped his wet mouth and stifled a belch. At the end of the bar a familiar voice chuckled, but that was quickly swallowed up by Susie.

'Good day?'

Small talk. Oh the joys.

'Aye, Susie. Good enough. Good enough. Is Cathy about?'

Susie looked troubled. 'No, she's off with John grabbing barrels from out back. Why?'

Stephen took a small coin from his pocket and placed it on the bar next to his pint glass. 'We mentioned no coin this morning, but best she gets this. I don't want you picked up by someone else.'

'Oh. Okay.' Her little smile was coming back. 'Another beer?'

'Stephen nodded. 'Aye, two please. One for the room. I need to freshen up.' He turned his attention to his would be apprentice, 'You get the bits I asked for, prentice?'

Tommy hopped down from his barstool. 'Yep. They is up in yer room already.' He didn't mention the remaining coins weighing down his pocket.

'Good, good.'

Susie placed the two beers on the counter and leant over as to shield their conversation from the rest of the bar.

'Everything all right? You seem distracted? Are we okay?'

He smiled and nodded waiting for a passer-by to move on before he spoke. 'Tired and thirsty. That's all. I've not been in company for so long I am used to keeping much to myself. Look, I will be down tonight at some point for dinner and then when you finish we can talk then, okay?

Bright smiles now. 'Okay, Stephen. I look forward to it. Should be an early finish so we can spend some time getting to know each other better.'

'I would like that.' Stephen grabbed the two beers and headed off up the stairs and disappeared into the hallway. Susie heard his door open and then close with a slam. She wasn't aware that the bar had fallen quiet and she blushed as the few locals returned their attention from her back to their own sorry little lives.

'What's he mean, cold coin so no one else can haves ya?' Tommy had moved himself along from the end of the counter to right opposite Susie. It startled her a little especially as she thought they had kept their small conversation pretty quiet.

'Nothing Tommy. It's just a joke we had. Now what have I told ya about eavesdropping?' She swung her dishcloth at him and he fell back off his chair landing hard on his bum. The rest of the patrons didn't even notice.

'Not fair, Susie.' Tommy yelled as he pulled himself up and brushed off the sawdust and dirt.

'Get back to yer beer, Tommy. Leave me in peace for a while and I shall keep it topped up for ya, okay?'

Tommy slunk back into the corner and before sitting on the barstool he rubbed his bruised backside. Up until a few years ago, when the voice had started in his head, he wouldn't have been able to sit still or stop himself from wetting his pants but now, with practice, Patience could speak to him and no one would suspect anything.

I know you loves her, Tommy. I know you want to put that dirty pink stick of yours inside of her.

No, it's not like that. I means, I would like too but I want to be a good man to her. I can be a good man to her. 'Specially now I'm an apprentice to a Watchman.

Alright, Tommy, don't wet the bed. If ya want her then bring her to me. I can help you. I know you have loved her for a long time, since you were both young. I have always promised you that one day I would thank ya for all the work you have done for me so just bring her along tomorrow and by nights end I guarantee Susie will be ya little girlfriend.

But how? She doesn't trust enough to come out to there.

Bring her to the shallow valley. Tell her about the yellow flowers that grow there. She has always liked them hasn't she? I shall wait for ya and if she puts up a fight we can both deal with it.

Tommy smiled and back in her wretched hut, Patience smiled back.
For All Your Sins I Love...

1

That morning, whilst Stephen and Susie fucked for the first time, John had woken early, hunkered on the sofa in the back room. His wife's house, for let's not forget that he doesn't own it and never really will, is huge, the biggest in Rockfall. His stomach felt fragile, his mind full of ache. He hated what he was going to do, hated himself but he had no choice. He had no choice?

A sick feeling welled up in his gut and he barely got to the downstairs toilet before throwing up all of lasts nights cured ham and spuds. He hugged the Porcelain King, hoping that he wouldn't start puking again. With four more retches and a spluttering of reddish sick the knots began to fade away. He staggered to his feet and leant upon the wash hand basin. Turning on the tap and letting the cold water pool in his closed hands, he looked at his reflection and hated the face starring back at him. Feeling the urge to puke again he splashed the water across his face, not once but five times. The water dripped from his nose and his mouth and all over the expensive shag pile under his feet. He cared little. The sickness was lifting now and his head was a lot clearer.

He wiped his hands across his face, picked up his dark blue trousers and white shirt from the back of the chair that he had slept in the night before and dressed himself. He couldn't stand it in this house anymore. It was full of too many memories, too many hurtful memories. Guilt was a silent killer, a killer that doesn't get much credit. He had dreamed last night that the contract had failed upon his wife and instead of him being the main point on the signed agreement it had been him and the three brothers had come for him. Come for him and killed him.

Everything around John felt cold and empty. Distant, other worldly. His house, his wife's house, was that of strangers or a distant family member. The ornaments, the paintings, the china and the rich trivialities were all borrowed. Borrowed from her. He felt borrowed sometimes; lent out to someone who cared little for their new toy and would eventually throw it on the scrap pile and get a newer, shinier toy to play with.

He opened and closed the front door of the giant mansion and the guilt, the nerves, the trepidation left him. He finished zipping up his fly and tucking in his shirt and he realised that this would probably be last time he left this house with a wife to his name. His wife. The bitch on his arm and the whore in his bed. No that was unfair. She was a good woman. She was no more a bitch than Susie was a whore. He was going to pay for what he was doing but hopefully his payment was years off. He glanced up to the top windows and to the one that had been his bedroom for so many years. He felt nothing for her. Felt no hate, no loss. No love All he felt was self-loathing and hatred towards his own wretched soul for doing what he was about to do. He knew though, that in time that the feelings would pass like a stubborn turd passes when given the opportunity.

As he walked down the steps leading to the gravel track that led to the gateway a familiar voice rang out in his head.

How could you John? How could you do this to me and the children? I gave you everything, this house, my love, your children and all you do in return is fuck around and have me killed

John shrugged off the voice and continued walking down the path. The road to the station was dusty and barren. The houses were quiet and hardly a soul appeared to greet the Deputy. The message from his wife did not leave his mind. He had loved Ellen, once, long ago when he was a lad and she was a lass. But now, age had gotten the better of both of them, he yearning for younger more willing pussy and she with sagging tits a stuck up nose and a tight unwilling hole. His marriage with Ellen was a sham now and everyone knew it. But it shouldn't end like it was going to end. But it would. What made it worse, for John that is not Ellen, is that he couldn't simply wait for her to die of natural causes, oh no, by that time he would be as old as the hills and her Will would have no record of his name what so ever.

No, if Cathy and John were to prosper and live a good life then Ellen must die and she must die sooner rather than later. His name was in the Will, that he knew for sure and so leaving it any later put his and Cathy's plans on a knife edge. He wished it didn't have to come to this, but he loved Cathy. Loved her so very much. He would rather lose his wife and children than Cathy and the Travellers Last.

My children. My little babies.

That would be his greatest loss, his children. All five of them would be sent away, to be brought up by Ellen's sister. It had been written and in her Will and there was little John could do about it. Besides, he wasn't much of a father. John booted a stone that lay in the road and watched it scuttle across it, kicking up little puffs of air as it went and finally coming to rest outside his place of work. It finished up next to a hoof of a horse that made up a trio of horses tied neatly in a row. The brothers were on time. His wife's time had run out.

2

The three horses were roped to the banister atop the boardwalk that surrounded the building, the sign of which marked it as the Court House. All the windows were barred and apart from the smoke coming from the chimney the building looked dead. The court house had space for four small offices used mainly for filling and junk, one large office which had the desks of the Deputy and the Sheriff in and six tight cells. It was a shabby building in a shabby town but none the less it was the home of the law and was to be respected.

The sand wrapped around Johns shoes as he stood outside his place of work and he stared long and hard at the three horses parked outside. They were big beasts, strong, muscular, with eyes as dark as coals. They cared little for him, brushing away the flies with their tails. The guilt began to rise in his gut again.

John spat out a huge wad of phlegm onto the dusty floor. His shirt became wet with sweat and his pants hung low in the humidity. It felt as though he had crapped himself. Three mules, three men and one goal, one plan, one simple plan; hard to fuck up. They were here to kill his wife. Simple. Rob the place and then kill his wife. So why my avid reader did John call upon these three men that ride horses fit for Death himself? Let me answer that; because these three men are killers. Long, tall and ugly killers. That is their lot in life. They go from place to place, taking what they want and caring little for the people they take it from. They are the lowest of the lows, the dirtiest of the dirtiest and would kill their own mother – and have by the by – for a chance to get at some gold. The Quint brothers are the best boys for the job, but be warned my avid reader for the brothers can turn quicker than a swirling bullet and they are not to be trusted. If you want details on how they look or how they strut then you will only have to imagine for a little while longer.

The Deputy stumbled up the small set of steps leading up to the main door of the jail house. He was oblivious to all around him. His gut was on fire. He couldn't believe that they had made their presence so obvious, leaving their horses tethered so out in the open. Johns anger rose but he knew he had to control it. Opening the main door to the building he stepped into the shade and into the beginning of the rest of his life.

He looked upon them like he would any hardened criminal.

The eldest brother, Wilson, sat at John's old and untidy desk; his right boot laying heavily on its dulled surface. Wilson's hair was long, black, as with all the brothers and it was tied back with a single knot of some unclean material. His face was long, dangerously serious, skin the tan colour of the desert and covered in scars of past encounters. His mouth was rigid, slight and full of wit, hate and malevolence. He had eyes of green fury. He wore the usual attire of a man of the desert; long dark leather jacket, dark blue jeans and a frayed white shirt. Around his waist he carried; slung low like the slinger he was, an old and battered hand made six shooter. The weapon had seen better days but not a better owner. Sat in the chair and staring straight at John, Wilson showed no emotion for he had lost it a long time ago and would never get it back.

The second eldest brother (if only for but sixty minutes) was Boyd and he was stood next to the chair like the doting wife in all those old photos John had seen. He too had long black hair, but his was tied back with two knots instead of one. He stood shorter than John, an even six foot. His face, as with Wilsons, was hard, rugged and emotionless. His deep blue eyes, like lakes of glass; shone in the dim light. He was the most handsome of the trio, less tanned than the other two and not as tatty looking. His leather jacket, frayed at the bottom edges as it dragged along the floor, concealed his father's double barrelled shot gun. Again with a white shirt and a pair of faded blue jeans he looked the part. His face, too, was expressionless and his eyes unblinking. Never play cards with Boyd Quint.

The third brother and the youngest of the three, Bane, was positioned opposite his twin brother and to the right of Wilson. He was the spit of Boyd and in their childhood had been mistaken many a many time. The only real aspect that pulled them apart where his brown eyes, dull like lifeless corpses. Recently, a scuffle had broken out in some far off pub and Bane had been left with a deep scar running from the tip of his jaw, across his right cheek, over his right eye and finally finishing in a lump on his forehead. The scar had made him ugly and far meaner. Banes long black hair was tied back with – yeah you guessed it – three knots and it shone in the sunlight. He wore a shorter leather jacket than his older brothers and his clothes were tatty beyond age. He carried a rusty six shooter but his real talent was slung across his back and tied 'quick release' to his shoulders. Banes rifle, a Jenkinson 'Pip the Ace' could find a target at well over eight hundred yards and Bane was a deadly shot. Deadly.

So there they are in all their glory. Three brothers all born in the same day. Wilson the eldest and leader with the twins; Boyd and Bane following like a true brother should. They are men whom care for little else but themselves and the gains that they can make from the misery of others. If you take but one bit of advice from this old story teller be it this: take a wide berth from the men, about a thousand miles should do it.

John swallowed hard. He knew that one wrong look, one misplaced gesture would end in his life. He had to be careful.

Wilson spoke first his voice gruff, low and devilish. 'I hope we didn't surprise you, John? But I thought a mission of this importance would require us to be a little... shall we say; prudent?' Wilson's eyes lit up and his mouth became a pink slit.

John remained silent, awestruck for the moment.

'What he means is,' now it was the turn of Boyd to speak; his voice was coarse, often monotone, 'that we arrive in your sweet little town early and we is seen by many riding round all day and causing a fuss, so when what is going to happen happens we can takes the blame.'

John nodded, his eyes not leaving the open gaze of Wilson but being aware of all the little movements the other two brothers make. The Deputy moved toward the desk and went to sit on the spare chair opposite Wilson.

'Who said you could sit?' Wilson asked looking concerned. His tone of voice hadn't changed, it very rarely did and John quickly lifted himself back up. Sweat formed upon his brow. Both Boyd and Bane chuckled under their breath.

Wilson leant forward, 'You wary of me, aint cha Dep'ty?'

John remained hunched over, holding onto the arms of the chair, his backside propped up facing the doorway. He knew the question to be a trick. If he answered positively then that would imply that Wilson was a cold hearted thug who cared little for anything or anyone else (a fact that was blatantly obvious). However if he were to answer negatively then that would show that John wasn't afraid of death itself in all its glory and so a man that shows no fear needs to be put in his place. The trickle of sweet on his brown soon became a river and his back and pants became sodden. He didn't like how the day was starting.

'Always dodging the tricky ones aint ya, John? Well it's a good job I don't give a pigs titty if ya are or if ya aint! All I cares about is how much and at what time. Anything else can go fuck itself. Just dust and piss as my Dad always said.' Wilson lowered his right foot to the floor and leant forward.

'Now sit the fuck down, you look like a dumb cunt!'

3

Over the next hour John and Wilson discussed the when, the where's and the how's and then finally how much. It was a discussion that no God fearing ears should have to listen. Before their meeting was over John voiced his concerns about Stephen.

'We have a visitor in town. Stephen. He claims to be Watchman from Ritash.'

'Oh, aye. This far out? You sure?' Wilson looked to his brothers and leant back in the chair. It creaked with age.

John shook his head. 'Not sure. I have no reason to doubt him, but then I have no reason to believe him. In these wretched days anyone can pose as anything,'

'So what is it to us?' Boyd asked and John turned to face him.

'Cathy and I are concerned.' John took in a breath. It was hellishly hot in his office today.

4

Bane, Boyd and Wilson looked at one another. Looked at each other's expressions and knew what each were thinking. They all began to smile. A Watchman meant a challenge and a good kill. A Watchman carried guns of grace and honour; guns that could shoot straight and kill quicker. Wilson stood slowly from the chair and strutted across the room. John did not follow him but instead listened to the dusty footfalls as the echoed on the hardwood floor. Finally they came to rest behind him. Wilson leant over and whispered into John's ear.

'If he is a Watchman, then he will be dealt with. Just like the all the others.'

5

The three brothers left the Court House in silence and together they untied their dark horses from the hitching rail and began to walk them toward the water trough in the centre of town. Rockfall was coming to life. Boyd decided to ask the question he knew his twin brother never would.

'Do you think John is right?'

Wilson didn't answer straight away, he was too busy watching the locals run back into the shade and the comfort of their homes. They would walk out from the doors of shops, unaware of what was coming toward them and then on seeing it their mouths would open and their eyes would bulge. How Wilson enjoyed seeing their discomfort.

'I doubt it very much. He's probably a man who walks the walk and talks the talk but when it comes down to crunch time he won't be worth a fart in the breeze. He would run a fuckin mile! Why the fuck would a Watchman come all the way out here?'

As the three brothers arrived at the trough the man already there, Pete Grinde the baker, quickly ushered his mule to finish its watering and then hurried off. His next stop not the bakery it should have but the Sheriffs house. Rockfall was a ghost town and the three brothers watered their horses with prying eyes gazing upon them from behind twitching curtains.

Wilson looked to his right, along the line of stores set back against the boardwalk. They looked in worse repair than they had on their last venture into this rotten dump.

'How long has it been? Two years, three. When was it we robbed old Frans store?'

Bane was silent allowing his brother to answer. 'Three, I think. Not too sure anymore, times hard to read now a days.' Boyd turned to Wilson, 'Who is to do what, brother?'

The eldest brother took in a deep breath and let it out through his nose. The air here was dusty, like that of the desert but Rockfall had a stench about it that Wilson cared little for. He untied the knot holding his hair back, placed his hands in the water trough and wetted his long black hair. It shone in the bright sunlight like oil. He combed through it with his hands and the carefully tied it back. With is hair slicked back Wilson looked far more focused.

'Bane and I shall go to the house and see to the wife and we shall do it as the Deputy requests. Boyd, you shall remain in town and get us the provisions we need. Grab as much as you can. Two more horses. Bread, meat, fish and water. Make sure the horses are strong. We is going to be getting a lot of gold.'

Boyd spat. He didn't like it. He was second brother and so should join the eldest on the mission.

'Why should I go to the stores? Send Bane. Why do I have to be the bitch?'

Wilson turned his gaze to Boyd; his eyes a fire. 'Coz I fuckin said so, Boyd! Don't go and be making a mistake like Ralph made. I don't want to shoot yer fuckin mouth off!'

Boyd looked to the floor and then into the eyes of his brother. There was death in those eyes. Murderous intent with every blink. Boyd knew that he was strong, tougher than old boots but he was no match for his eldest brother.

Sorry brother.'

Wilson kicked at the dusty ground sending stones flying across the road. All the while Bane stood silently watching what was going on.

'So ya fuckin should be.' Wilson placed his right arm on Boyd's left shoulder. 'I trust you with any task I set, but getting the grub aint a task for old silent tongue here, is it? He is best for the main job, you know that.' They both looked at Bane and nodded in agreement of Banes wicked ways.

A few moments past and the brothers stood there, together as one. How they enjoyed their unity. It bound them together and made them stronger. As individuals they were hard men. But together they became so much more.

Wilson felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to see Bane gazing off to the west and toward an oncoming figure walking along the boardwalk. The silent brother motioned Wilson to look quickly in that direction. The fat man walking toward could be no one but the Sheriff and Wilson had been looking forward to this meeting for a few days now. The Sheriff wobbled from side to side as he forced his huge frame to move quicker. Wilson kept his eyes fixed on the Sheriff and gestured to his brothers to keep their hands well out in the open.

'Keep your hands where the Sheriff can see em brothers. We don't want to upset the local law man, now, do we?'

The bravery of the Sheriff always came as a surprise to Wilson and even now, when the two of them had met on so many occasions, the Sheriffs straight back, unwavering hand and gaze impressed the elder Quint brother.

'What in the Lords name are you doing here, Wilson Quint? And I don't want any of yer saucy remarks neither!' The Sheriff waved his fat hand at Wilson and then at his two younger brothers. He came to a halt in front of them but still under the cover of the boardwalk, a good ten meters away.

'My good Sheriff. It is so nice to see you again. We are well met on this fine morn, so we are. Happy birthday for the other day. Sadly I didn't get an invite.' Wilson looked at his two brothers and grimaced, 'But I guess we don't warrant an invite, do we boys?'

The Sheriff fell silent and began tapping his foot upon the boardwalk.

'Look, Mr Sheriff, me and the brothers are just passing through and thought we might pick ourselves up some grub, that's all. No more – no less. I am in a good mood today and I don't want nothing to happen to spoil it.'

The Sheriff shook his head, his face becoming red and flustered. What arrogance they have.

'You are not welcome here, Wilson, you nor your brothers. Now be on your way before I call the force. We are certainly not well met!'

Wilson looked to the floor, his brothers took a step back. Things were turning sour. The air grew hotter and the sun seemed to smile down on the group of men below. Finally Wilson smiled.

'As always Sheriff, your hospitality is as warm as the moon. You boil my blood, aye, you'd do and I don't give a fart in the wind if we are met in favour or not!' Wilson thumbed behind him, pointing aimlessly at his two brothers. 'Look, I have already been to your office this morning and spoken to John assuring him that I mean no harm to day. Nobody here will feel our wrath. Not today. You have my word.'

The Sheriff laughed loudly; his belly rolling from side to side. The small crowd about him followed suite. If there was anything that got the Quint brothers backs up then it was being laughed at. How they didn't draw their weapons and kill every last bastard in this town God only knows. Wilson took in a deep hot breath and calmed himself down. He glanced to each of his brothers his eyes telling them to do likewise. Jameson, realising that he may have taken this a little too far stopped his laughter and it wasn't long before the small group had returned to silence.

'How can we trust the word of a murderer, of a thief? Tell me that, Wilson Quint. You promise! I spit on your word. Your words mean nothing.'

Wilson scratched at his irritating stubble. The day was getting hot now, too hot for such bullshit as this. He wanted to be in the shade, dusting off his boots, maybe even buying himself some cunny before the afternoon was over. The eldest brother bit his lip and rolled his eyes in contempt.

'You can trust my word because it is I who have given it! I mean what I say, Sheriff. Don't be a fool.'

The Sheriff wasn't afraid of the three brothers. He never had been nor ever would be. The only thing that scared him was what they might do if forced to leave the town. There would certainly be gunfire and death would soon follow.

'Do what it is that you came here to do and then be gone. I won't have you or your brothers disturbing the peace. By the time the Travellers is locked up I want you well on your way. You understand?'

The brothers nodded.

'You have my word, Sheriff. Bane and Boyd will do as I say. Just remember, though, if any hands come between us then we will retaliate. You can trust my word on that.'

The Sheriff shook his head and hurried off toward his office where he no doubt would give the Deputy a serious talking to. He had lost a lot of the colour that had earlier filled his fat face. The eldest brother turned his attention to his two younger brothers whom had gone back to their horses.

'That man boils my blood and he fuckin knows it too!' He watched the Sheriff walk off into the heat haze of the horizon wishing for the chance to blow his head off.

'One day Sheriff you are going to find yourself peering down the barrel of my gun and praying to whatever God it is that you worship, for a quick end.'

6

For the rest of the day the men hunkered down in the Travellers Last, keeping much to themselves. Passers-by would peer through the windows as the three brothers sat playing nine cards, drinking neat whiskey and eating their way through half a cow. With their presence; business was slow in the Travellers, even old Morrie kept his distance.

As the sun began to set, mere moments before Stephen walked through the batwing doors, Wilson and Bane left the bar leaving Boyd to go about his chores. He considered approaching the young filly that stood behind the bar – taking her our back for a good fucking- but he thought better of it and simply left his money upon the table and trundled out into the cooling early evening air.

7

Wilson and Bane sat upon their horses at the path leading to the Drive household holding their reigns tight and their horses quiet. The darkness swamped them and they were one with the night. The gold and jewellery they got form this mansion would be enough to keep them in boots for the rest of their lifetimes and if things got short...well, Wilson had no qualms about killing to get what he wanted. Brotherly love and all that don't stand for much – if anything, in the desert, especially when it comes down to life or death.

The two men watched the path for some time. Just as doubt began to set into Wilsons mind, Mrs Depor, the house help and child minder came strolling down the path accompanied by the Deputies five children all dressed in their summer fineries. The minder nor the children saw the two men waiting in the night shadows and they happily went on into town to sing songs to an unhearing God at Church.

he eldest brother held fast for another five minutes letting the children and Mrs Depor get well away and the house to fall silent. Wilson flicked the reigns, as too did Bane and the two men silently rode the horses down the shingle path and further away from the promise that they had made to the Sheriff to keep the peace. A promise the Sheriff knew, deep down inside, that the Quint brothers would never keep. And Wilson never disappointed. To survive out in the desert you had to be ruthless, cut throat and deadly. The Quint brothers were all those and much, much more. To get food and water you had to kill and steal; it was as simple as that. No great science was needed. No shades of grey out here in the desert.

Nearing the main door of the house Wilson gestured to Bane to dismount. The horses were tethered to a nearby tree and the two men walked quietly up to the house. The floor boards creaked under their boots as they made their way up the stairs. The moonlights reflection shone in the brass doorknob and knocker and Wilson's hatred for the richer way of life gathered like a thundercloud in the summers sky.

Spoken quietly, Wilson said, 'Remember, Bane; we grab her, tie her down, have some fun, grab the loot and get the fuck out of here. We leave what we can't carry and takes what we can. I will finish off the old lady. Agree?'

Bane nodded. Oh how I could yarn about simple Bane. But now is not the time for his evil far out ways that of his brothers. Soon my long time readers. Soon you will see the true face of evil. But not yet.

The brothers were now stood in front of the door, slightly bent over so not to appear in any of the windows. Wilson gestured with his boot how the door was to be opened and held up four fingers. He and Bane stood back.

Wilson mouthed the countdown 'One...Two...Three...' and with a splintering crack of old wood the door flew off its hinges and the silence of the town was broken.

Bane ran in first; gun drawn hearing screams in his mind that weren't actually there. Surely there must be screams? There were always screams during this type of work. Only the ticking of the large Grandfather Clock could be heard. Nothing stirred in the Drive residence tonight. Bane moved his head from side to side hoping to catch a little movement. But he saw nothing. He gestured to Wilson with a wave of his gun hand. The eldest was sure he saw a wink of comic shock in the eyes of Bane.

Wilson boots left dark stains on the rug as he strutted in; one gun still holstered the other hanging low to his right. A creaking of floor boards came from the large room to the right and he and Bane looked at each other; eyes wide. Both men moved in that direction; their shadows stretching out in front of them.

'GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!' a woman's voice boomed from a far off dark corner as the shadows walked through the doorway.

Bane, as nonchalant as Bane always was just kept on walking holding his brother back with a limp hand. How he loved to be the first through a door; to juggle death; to taunt it every time he had the opportunity.

As Bane stepped through the doorway and his shadow disappeared into the darkness the voice screamed out again.

'GET OUT OF MY HOME, YOU BASTARDS!' The woman's scream however was cut short as a huge gunshot, cannon like in its roar, echoed around the room leaving two great tattered holes in an armchair not two foot away from Bane. Two barrels glowed red hot in the far right hand corner of the room. The air filled with the scent of cordite and burnt upholstery. If the light had been on then you would have seen Banes eyes filled with joy and a cruel little smile upon his face. But the lights weren't on and Wilson used this to his advantage. He charged through the room, leaping over tables and dodging small tables adorned in many a fine trinket. Within only but a few heartbeats the eldest brother was in front of the shooter his own gun raised to her head. The smoke still wafted from the barrels and the ends were still red hot. Slowly he placed his left hand on the wooden stock and prised it from her shaking hand. He could see her eyes; bloodshot with the cordite but wide with fear. Wide with hatred. Admirably she made a move for the gun and not so admirably Wilson punched her in the face with his right gun hand sending her sprawling to the floor with a thump. He threw himself around to check on his brother and as he did the lights flicked on temporarily blinding him.

Blinking he raised the heavy shotgun that was in his left hand and admired the weapon the lady had used. Rare to see an ancient shotgun, especially one that fired. By the Maker it was old, older than he had ever seen. But that still wouldn't have stopped it from ripping Banes guts out and knowing this he turned his attention to the smouldering armchair that Ellen had somehow hit.

'Jumping Man Jesus! This fucker would have torn you to fucking bits, Bane!' Wilson younger brother shrugged and pointed to the woman at Wilson's feet.

Ellen was conscious again and trying to crawl her way to freedom. Wilson chuckled to himself.

'Grab me some rope, Bane and a not too damaged chair.' Throwing the gun to the floor and kneeling onto Ellen's back he stifled her screams by yanking back her long brown hair.

'Gonna have to tie yer up now, lovey. You've got some balls, aye, ya have but that just makes the end a whole lot worse!'

8

Within twenty minutes the woman was tied to a chair and the loot rather uncaringly stashed into many travel worn sacks which were in turn piled up by the smashed doorway.

Ellen had fallen unconscious whilst being tied up and she sat slumped in her favourite chair, drool and blood pouring from her cut mouth. Wilson and Bane stood in the doorway to the sitting room where John had spent the last night on the couch. The eldest brother tapped Bane on the shoulder. 'It's about time we woke up old fussy breaches and ended this charade.'

Walking over to Ellen he removed a small silver vile. Uncorking it, he placed it under her nose and moved it between her nostrils. Slowly the wife of John Drive came back to the real world. Bane leant against the woodwork watching his brother; wishing he were the one sending Ellen on the path.

After a couple of minutes, Ellen was awake. Pain etched in her eyes; blood encrusted around her mouth. Her dress was stained with her blood and torn in some places. She went to talk but found it hard at first. She looked at Wilson then back down to the floor. Finally she asked 'What are you doing in my house?'

Wilson scratched his left cheek. 'Robbing it. Pretty fuckin obvious really.'

'What are you going to do with me?' Ellen's voice cracked as she pushed back the tears.

'Straight to the point as always, my dear Ellen.' Wilson leant forward, barely a noses length away from Ellen and then said, 'I am going to kill you Ellen. Simple answers for simple questions.'

The woman struggled in her chair, not trying to free herself but trying to get away from the man that stood in front of her, but it was no good; her bonds were far too tight. She sobbed as she realised her struggles were futile. Her eyes darted around the room.

'No one here to save you I'm afraid, Ellen.'

'John...John...John...JOHN!'

Wilson waved her words away, 'No good calling for something that aint ever going to come. John aint coming to save ya.'

Ellen sniffed back the snot dribbling from her nose and blinked out the tears as she looked straight at Wilson. 'Why? What have you done with him?'

Wilson laughed. 'I aint done nothing to him, Ellen. Swears on my Ma's grave.'

'Then why won't he come?'

Wilson quickly looked to his younger brother whom gestured with a twirl of his fingers to hurry this along. The eldest turned back and took in a deep then let out a deep sigh. Regretfully Wilson said, 'Because he was the one that sent us, Ellen.'

Ellen shook her head. 'Liars. Cold face LIARS! He wouldn't do such a thing! FUCKING LIARS!' Spit and blood ran down her chin as she yelled and Wilson pulled away as the torrent finished. He raised his voice above hers and she soon silenced.

'Yes he would Ellen. He would and he has. He wants it all Ellen and if that means that you have to walk the path and find Palaluka then so be it. To be honest with ya, Cathy and John have been planning this for months.'

Ellen shook her head violently but realisation came quickly. She was going to die. She looked up into the face of the man doing the deed and realised that he had no remorse for what he was about to do. She sucked in all the snot she could and spat it out violently. The ball of mucus flew hard and fast and splatted across Wilsons right eye. The blood and snot dribbled down his cheek. Behind, Bane looked to the floor and shook his head in dismay.

'You bastard! You heartless bastards!' screamed Ellen.

Wilson wiped the muck from his face with a piece of cloth and threw it upon the floor.

'I can't argue with you there Ellen. I am heartless, but I am afraid time is getting short and we have to be making tracks.'

Ellen struggled to free herself one last time but she couldn't; her wrists were torn and her back ached. She let loose one final flurry of insults hoping that they would bring down her killers.

'You bastard son of a slut! You have no place on this world. May your mother shun you and your father strip you of any name you hold. My you and your family rot in all hells and be the bitch for the Demons cock - '

Wilson raised his gun and shot Ellen in her right kneecap and the insults came to end as her shouts turned to screams. Blood oozed from the wound and ran down her leg pooling on the wooden floor below.

'Now you listen to me you old fuckin cunt and you listen good! I killed my mother and my father and I don't give a fuck where I ends up as long as I have a good time when I'm there. Now stop fuckin screaming!'

Wilson unloaded another slug, this time into Ellen's left kneecap. She screamed out as the pain increased and the blood splattered across her face. Her eyes rolled back into her sockets as her mouth contorted. Her screams were becoming bestial now and the whole image was beyond description.

Wilson stood back, and he pulled the trigger twice more this time shooting out both of Ellen's elbows. Blood spurted and poured and the floor was awash with it. Finally her screams came to an end as the pain heightened. She had run out of breath to scream with and her body slumped in the chair. With all the strength she could muster she lifted her head and stared at the man holding the gun to her forehead.

'I...Love you John. For...all...your sins...I love –'

Wilson pulled the trigger one final time. Ellen's head exploded as the bullet tore through and splattered her skull and brain all over the fucking place.

Just imagine my little reader, imagine if you dare, that Bane, stood in the corner like an admiring school boy, is far more dangerous than Wilson could ever dream of. One day his story will be told.

9

Blue streams of moonlight poured through the window as Stephen, dressed and ready to go down to the bar, sat at the end of his bed. The voice of the gun holstered comfortably on his right side burned into his skull – it had tormented his few hours of sleep he had gotten and forced him to wake.

Can't stay here, Stephen. I am hungry, she is hungry and we need to eat. You need to kill

What do you expect of me, Jonah? To walk down there and start shooting?'

It would have come to that if it wasn't for the brothers that are currently heading out of town.

'What brothers?' Stephen stood and headed over to the window gazing at the full moon that filled the sky. It was bright enough to hide the stars.

The Quints. They have been up to no good, Stephen and need punishing.

Stephen was quiet. He had no urge to kill, no need.

Yes you do, Watchman! Yes you do. Don't forget what will happen if I remain quiet. Your future and the future of all the others teeter on you now, Stephen. Would you risk that?

'No.'

Then listen to me. Hangman's Hill is where they is at. You'll have to run, much time has already been lost. Be careful of them Stephen, the Quints are ruthless and as sharp as knives.

'I have to have a reason, Jonah, I just can't go around recklessly killing? I may have changed from the man I once was, but I still have a conscience of a sort.'

Jonah laughed and it was loud enough for Stephen to fruitlessly grab at ears in an attempt to silence the metallic killer.

Once day you will look back at these days and laugh and wonder how stupid and weak you once were. I know of your path, much like that old crow I have witnessed you bump and grind through life, finally ending up here with me at your hip. I am good for you, Stephen, trust in that. I won't see you come to any harm but you have to listen to me, follow me, especially if you want to impress those that have trusted in you.

Stephen moved away from the window and looked into the mirror. 'A reason, Jonah.'

The Deputies wife has been killed, Watchman. The Quint brothers shot her to bits. Not for the gold, though they will take that gladly, they did the dirty deed all for John and Cathy. You saw them looking at each other. You sensed it and I am confirming it. Her death will leave five kids motherless, and fatherless when the will is read. Cathy and John have been fucking like rabbits this past two years everyone knows it apart from the wife.

Those three brothers are deadly, Stephen. You would be doing the rest of the world a great justice by wiping them off the face of the earth.

There was no getting away from it, Stephen was as trapped as a fly in a spider's web. Part of him was distrustful, holding back from the urges that he felt swelling inside of him like the coming of a great tide. There was another part, the part of him that had pushed him through the Watchman trials that was weak to such urges, weak to such base desires. He could usually keep that at bay, but Jonah was different, he was in their all the time, tapping on his head – even the smallest hammer, given time, could destroy the biggest rock.

The image of the dead Clicker came to Stephen and it reminded him of how close he had come to dying earlier today, it also reminded him of how much of an asset Jonah could be for him. He just needed to set some rules.

'I will kill for ya, Jonah, I shall pull your ancient trigger but in return please be quiet. Only speak when I need you the most or I swear to all the Gods that I shall throw you into the deepest darkest hole and bury you there caring not for the outcome of any future. Do you understand?'

Yes. Now, off to the hill. I'm hungry!

10

Stephen grabbed his light coat and raced from his room, down the stairs, out of the bar and into the dark streets of Rockfall.

Back in the travellers, hidden by the open door of the bathroom, stood a confused Susie. She clutched tight the set of towels she had been asked to fetch wondering who it was that Stephen had been talking to. She daren't open the door to his bedroom, even though she didn't hear a second voice she feared for what she might find in there. Instead, she skittered into the bathroom and watched from the window as Stephen made his way from the boardwalk, across the dusty road and off in the direction of Hangman's Hill.

It wasn't too long before Susie went after him. It was something that she would regret doing, but only for a short while.

Morrie and a few other patrons watch her leave and turned to face each other – their faces alight with smiles. There was no one left to man the bar.
The Ones Needing Luck

1

'So it's done then?' John scanned the three fire lit blank faces.

'Course its fuckin done, John. We aint a bunch of fuckin Runnies ya know!'

John ran his hands though his hair. How he hated the Quint brothers. Hated them almost to the point of doing something about it. Almost; but not quite. He liked his life too much to act so foolishly.

'Look, John, we could stand here all fuckin night staring into each other's eyes like a couple of queers or you could hand over the money and we could be well on our way. We have just committed a murder ya know!'

The Deputy swallowed hard and prayed to whatever God loved him still that the Quint brothers would wait just a little while longer.

'I have not got the money. Cathy is bringing it with her and she must be running late.'

Wilson closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. Before he could insult the good Deputy he heard footsteps coming up the hill.

'Looks like you've been saved, my dear John.'

In silence Cathy walked up to John and kissed him upon the cheek. She handed him four rather large bag of money and stood aside.

'This money is for a job well done and for staying the fuck out of this place for the rest of yer days.' John threw the bag of money and they hit the floor hard. Wilson weighed them and then handed them to Boyd stood on his right.

'My pleasure, Deputy. We will never darken your doorstep again. By the by, John, your ex went screaming and cursing your name something rotten. Made me regret not taking my time.'

Cathy lowered her head and closed her eyes trying to block out what she was hearing. Wilson couldn't believe his luck.

'Oh, so now the deed is done you have regrets?' Wilson spat a huge wad of phlegm onto the floor, 'Well it's too fuckin late for that, now. Deed done. Live with it! Now if ya don't mind we will be on our way. Good luck to ya John and Cathy, may the fates favour ya. You is going to be needing it.'

2

Wilson turned and came face to face with the barrel of a gun.

3

'They aren't the ones needing luck, Wilson Quint.'

4

Wilson smiled at the man facing him. He had to admire the bloke's balls if nothing else. Bane and Boyd turned on the spot and drew their six shooters each pulling a bead on the lone gunman. Wilson raised his hands gesturing them to lower their weapons. He wanted this cunt to himself.

John and Cathy stood petrified, both in total disbelief at what they were seeing.

'Well, well, well the man they thought to be a Watchman has a pair. We are well met?'

'Shoot him in the fuckin face, Wilson, kill the fucker NOW!' Cathy spat, pointing at Stephen.

'Keep your woman quiet, John, she aint got a clue what she is talking about.'

With a tug upon her shoulder and a stabbing glare from John, they were the last words she spoke to Wilson Quint.

Stephen spoke calmly now. His voice unshaken and his gun not wavering. 'We are not well met, Wilson Quint. You are a thief and a murderer. Now put down your weapons and place your hands in the air.'

Wilson smiled at the little man come hero standing before him and knew that this man was no match for him; nor his brothers.

'Nope. They can keep their guns raised and you can lower yours, traveller. You are out manned and out gunned.'

Stephen smiled his deathly cold smile at Wilson. 'Always so sure of yerself aint ya Wilson. Always so confident about your assumptions. Have you ever been wrong?'

'Never. And I aint gonna be!'

Bane and Boyd's trigger fingers became itchy and Stephen sensed that time for small talk was almost at an end. Before he could speak, Wilson butted in.

'Look mate, you have a big set of balls and I admire that. A Watchman you aint and never will be. I on the other hand am a ruthless son of a bitch who murdered his own mother for a gold coin or two. I suggest that you turn away now before I lose my fuckin temper. Leave now and live my little friend.'

The three brothers stood, the fire ablaze in their eyes and their target stood well out in the open. It was obvious to see why they were so confident; Stephen was one man they were three. In reality though, Stephen was so much more.

Wilson lowered his hand.

Before bane could even think of pulling his trigger Stephen had side stepped to the right, twisted and fired two rounds straight into Banes pumping heart leaving the youngest brother dead as he fell. Boyd, now standing roughly two meters from Stephen had a perfect shot into the Watchman's chest but Stephen, no sooner as he had fired the two rounds into Banes chest began to run across the flummoxed Boyd and around to the left side of him. Wilson fired off four shots; three missing wildly and the fourth buzzing past Stephens's ear. The Watchman released another two slugs as he dived to the floor; one went through Boyd's upper leg; blood pissing into the air the second went straight through his neck almost blowing his head clean off. Boyd fell to the floor on a pool of dusty blood. His screams were great almost monumental and then they were nothing. The Watchman ran forward and scoped up the dropped gun that had been Boyd's and continued on. The elder brother backing away tracked the run of the lone gunmen (still not really getting the fact that his brothers were dead) and shot off two more shots. With a twist and a turn Stephen dodged the bullets and Wilson backed away even more quickly reloading just one bullet. By the time Stephen had come to a dusty stop, aiming both guns at Wilson's head, the killer had managed to point his own gun at Stephens's heart. So here they were like two gunslingers of old. Stalemate. Rules as old as time itself.

'Wait just a fuckin second.' Wilson demanded and Stephen who had no intention on firing took a step back and nodded.

'What in Gods cunt are you?'

Stephen remained silent.

'WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU! ANSWER ME!'

And still Stephen said nothing.

With all the skill he had Wilson fired off his single reloaded shot. The bullet tore through the air heading straight for Stephens heart. As the bullet went through the air Stephen fired his own gun and the two bullets rammed against each other. Sparks flew and hot metal spluttered to the ground. Wilson fell to his knees in shock.

'I don't give a fuck who you are I'm still going to kill ya yer fuck! I'm going to shoot yer fuckin eyes out ya cunt! Mark me!'

Wilson tried to reload his gun but his shaking hands and the hot barrels made it very hard. He began to tremble all over as the sweat and the shock mixed with the cool night air.

He managed to load two bullets. His hands still shook and his face was full of fury. He now knew what this man was but he didn't care. If he was going to die then it would be firing his gun. He swung the weapon up to the man stood not one foot in front of him but before the trigger could be pulled Stephen kicked the gun from out of his hands.

Slowly Stephen leant forward pushing one gun to the forehead of Wilson the other digging into his chest just above the heart.

'Time to die, Mr Quint.' A single gunshot echoed through the desert drumming out the sound of skull and brain as it splashed against the hardpan.

5

As the smoke cleared from the moonlit air, Stephen threw down the gun that his left hand had scooped up and picked up the gun that he had kicked out of Wilsons shaking hands. With a twist of the wrist the chamber swung open and Stephen shook out the two remaining bullets. They fell to the floor closely followed by the gun.

Without even looking he addressed the two shuffling figures of Cathy and John.

'Don't move. Don't speak. I am arresting you for conspiring to kill Ellen Drive and then paying for her brutal murder. Don't even think of running. Mark me well! As much as I need to kill ya, I want you to face justice. I want you to look your children on the eye.'

John slumped to the floor looking at the three fallen brothers. Cathy quickly followed. Neither of them considered running.

'How could he have known? How could he have known?' Cathy muttered to the hardpan. 'How did you know?'

John moved his hand over to Cathy as if to silence or bring comfort, Stephen was unsure of which.

'How did you know?' John mirrored as the situation sunk in. 'Answer her question, Stephen. You owe us that, at least.' John watched Stephen turn the three bodies over onto their bellies and knew that this was one of the old ways; though John couldn't remember which one.

'I owe you two nothing. You have broken the laws I was sworn to protect and for that you shall rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable lives.'

6

From the other side of the hill and hidden in darkness Susie sat with her back to Stephen; her head in her hands and tears rolling down her cheeks. She struggled to control them. Struggled to stop screaming. She had watched the man she knew she loved take down three hardened killers without taking a hit. She had watched Stephen effortlessly move between them like a ghost; like death, and cutting them down before they even knew it.

She heard footsteps coming her way and she pulled herself together. Susie quickly stood and ran off into the darkness and back toward Rockfall. The wind was cold against her skin and her eyes stung with the tears that still poured form them. She couldn't believe what Stephen had done. What had she fallen in love with? How could such a kind man be so ruthless?

Above her, the Old Lady and her Nine Daughters winked with what looked like starry laughter.

From his vantage point Stephen watched Susie run off and on the breeze he could hear her sobs. He cared little for them. He could hear the mutterings between Cathy and John and cared little for those too.

He waited there for some time, in perfect silence until the Sheriff and a few of his townsfolk showed up. He answered their questions well enough leaving much to the imagination. Saying that he made them argue between themselves and taking advantage of the three brothers whilst they were distracted.

As he went to leave he heard Cathy scream at the Sheriff for forgiveness. Her screams were cut short by a slap to the side of her face and Stephen walked down Hangman's Hill with a smile upon his mouth. He looked up to the stars and saw the Old Lady surrounded by her nine daughters and wandered if his King could see the same stars.

Thank you Stephen and as promised I shall remain quiet.

And Jonah was good to his word. He was quiet. But Jonah had other tricks up his sleeve, deadlier tricks, one that Stephen didn't know about, ones that Stephen couldn't even feel. It was these tricks that would, in a matter of hours, turn Stephen into the ruthless killer he needed to be.

7

Stephen walked back into Rockfall alone. The streets weren't busy, time had raced on. The moon was high; halfway through its eternal cycle. It was a quiet evening, the scent of lavender was carried on the soft breeze. Somewhere far off he could hear the harsh tones of a banjo twanging out an odd tango.

As he passed a few sleeping homes, looking like blackened teeth in a mouth of yellow gore, his eyes were drawn to a lower window where a candle flickered brightly. A woman beckoned him over to her. As he approached Stephen noticed that she was naked, her bare body dazzled in moonlight and the flickering red of the candlelight. She was slim, underfed, with a face that was plain, hard and shone echoes of better days.

'I heard what you did, Cowboy.' She said, her voice low and dull – enticing. There were two purple lavender orchids tied into her ebony hair. In the distance a wounded dog yelped its end.

'News travels fast.' He was next to the window now, her sweet scent –wooden and cherry- filled his nostrils. 'And you are?'

She smiled, a soft smile, one that hadn't seen much light of the many days she had spent here. 'An admirer. A woman that knows what a Cowboy needs. A woman that dreams of dreaming of you.' She leant out and stroked his cheek – his stubble sounding like sand paper against marble. 'The night is young, Cowboy and still full of wonders. You but only need to reach out a little to grab one. Or three if ya fancy.'

The air was wet with her voice, the candle light entrancing as it shone on her fake pearl necklace. His eyes and her eyes met, both wide; full of their sexual intent. Underneath it all, in the darkness that Jonah swam in, he smiled a wretched smile.

Stephen spent the night there and had himself some wonders – three of them.

Just outside, peeping through the window, Tommy unzipped his trouser and gave himself a quick wonder before running off into the dark night.

8

In the Travellers, Susie spent the night in her room, crying at first, and then remembering how much she loved Stephen and wanted to be with him. She thought about how she would go out tomorrow, to the small valley where the lavender grew and pick herself some of the orchids and decorate her hair for him. All for him. Always it would be for him no matter what he was or was capable of. What was important was that she loved him. Loved him.

She fell asleep with that thought.
Your Lives Are Coming To An End

1

Electrical impulses stimulate areas of our brain millions of times a day. These electrical currents control who we are, what we do and what we feel. They learn, they remember and they help store things away. They have the ability to link two completely separate senses together so that a smell can remind you of a place or an event. In times past, men could control these electrical currents and manipulate the wires of the mind so that memories could be wiped away, new ones made, even changed. Jonah had those gifts. In the past, men had used this marvel for good, but Jonah did not. Whilst Stephen slept, a good sleep – a deep sleep – Jonah had set about his task and rewired parts of Stephens mind. Like an errant child throwing toy blocks from his cot, Jonah showed little care for what he was doing and what he was making.

As the sun breached the horizon and bathed Rockfall in its mighty glory, Jonah stepped back from his creation his mouth agape.

Wake up, Stephen. Wake up.

Stephens's eyes opened abruptly.

2

He couldn't remember what he had dreamt about, why he had awoken with a jolt, but it mattered not now that he was awake. He pulled back the dirty bed sheets and gathered his belongings together dressing as he went about it. He had done this pitiful act many times. This time though he didn't have to leave a coin. The room he was in was familiar, much like all the others - small, fancy for a trick, adorned with cheap paintings and a beaten mirror. It smelt of sweet lavender and salty, stale sex.

He grabbed his boots and eased them on, his feet groaning. He glanced at the woman. She was not what he remembered. Her skin was pallid, blotchy and full of scars and lumps and bruises. Her tits, which he was sure were plump not six hours ago, were flat, like empty water skins. He rubbed his eyes, hoping that the woman he had seen last night would reveal herself like a poor magic trick – but she did not.

Stephen chuckled, stood and went to leave almost reaching into his pocket but then remembering not to.

Kill her.

Stephen turned and drew Jonah.

With your hands, Stephen.

Stephen re-holstered the gun and did what he was told. The woman's eyes opened as the grip around her neck tightened. As she struggled the bed creaked and groaned much like it had the night before but this was a different dance. It wasn't long before froth appeared from her wasted mouth. Her eyes were wide, sucking in the light, begging for him to stop. Her arms flailed wildly like out of control windmills in a winter's gale.

Her body heaved up and down – up and down – up and... and then her eyes closed, her arms fell and the struggles eased. There was one last struggle for breath, like a distant sob after a good cry and then she was gone.

Stephen lifted away his hands and rubbed them clean on the dead woman's only dress as he left.

3

Susie met Tommy outside of the Travellers and they both headed off to valley together. The morning was cool and quiet. There were the usual cackles from the crows, the bleats of sheep and of goats. Dogs would bark and then yelp as their masters reminded them who was boss but soon even those were a distant echo as they ventured further from Rockfall. The two moved in silence which would have puzzled Susie under different circumstances, but today she didn't mind.

She had spent the night dreaming of Stephen and had awoken with the memories of the night be fore's atrocities almost wiped clean. They were there, she could remember them whenever she wanted, but as love is blind, so too can be our memories and she would only be reminded of them when the end was coming.

'Not too fars now, Susie.' Tommy was a few meters ahead and veering down the steep slope to the valley floor.

'Yep. Good thing as well, feels like it is going to be another scorcher.' Susie wiped some sweat from her brow and took in a deep breath. The air was stale, much like it always was but there was something else – hidden beneath the stink – another scent, like decaying flesh or the smell of a dead dog. She swallowed and spat, trying to rid herself of the stink but it wouldn't go. She reached the top of the rise the Wastelands stretching as far as the eye could see - the sky a massive blue sheet of glass, the ground a wash of yellow and white with the occasional speck of bush or cactus breaking up the monotony. She stepped cautiously from the hardpan to the loose soil of the steep slope and headed down to where Tommy stood at the bottom. It wasn't far, perhaps fifty feet but the sheerness of the fall made it treacherous.

But the orchids would be worth it. Keeping her feet sideways on Susie clambered down, sometimes skidding on the loose soil. She looked up from time to time, making sure she was headed in the right direction and that Tommy was still there. Her legs were beginning to tire and the sweat was running into her eyes.

She glanced down to see how far she had to go, the sun hindering her vision. Holding up her hand to shield her eyes from the yellow glare she a black garbed figure raced from a stack of rocks over to where Tommy stood unaware of what was heading his way. Whatever it was moved fast and seemed to be holding some kind of weapon.

She leant forward to hurry her climb and as she was about to shout her concerns to the young man, the ground beneath her feet crumbled and she went tumbling down – floor to sky floor to sky floor to sky. Over and over again she went grunting as her body hit the deck. Her legs and arms banged against rocks, her back grazed upon needle bush. At some point she thought that eventually she would pass out or crack her head against a blade rock and that would be that. Dust flew up her nose and she began to believe that this tumble would never come to an end.

Finally, with one last deep thud to the side she hit the valley floor and Susie screamed, coughed and cried as she expected the worse.

As the dust settled, matching the muddle of her mind, she eased her breathing and waited for the agony of broken bones to set in - but it didn't. She hurt, really hurt but everything felt intact and attached. Slowly, she knelt on all fours and spat out a wad of dusty phlegm. Her side hurt something rotten and she could taste blood. Her head was still spinning and she felt sick but Susie couldn't help but feel amazed. Amazed and lucky.

An image of the garbed figure running at Tommy flashed before her eyes.

She was still knelt on all fours like a dog when a rough pair of boots stood between her dirty cut and bloodied hands.

'Christ, Tommy,' Susie gasped, 'that was fucking close.'

There was no response. But that smell had come back, only this time a thousand times worse. It filled her nose and the air grew heavy. She found it hard to breath and slowly Susie tilted her head up to see what was in front of her. What was causing the smell?

'Patience...'

And then the world went black.

4

It had been a struggle, well for Tommy anyway, and taken longer than had been anticipated but finally Susie was propped up in an old wooden chair her hands and feet bound to the chair – naked. Tommy had been told to wait outside for the time being and much like the night before; he peered through gaps in a window only this time his cock was kept in his pants.

Patience went about her business mumbling and grumbling as she waddled about her home. What Patience had to do to Susie was probably best done when the girl was out of it, but Patience didn't want that. She wanted Susie to be looking her in the eyes as she did the deed and then found out the truth. Giggling to herself Patience scratched at her scabby scalp and kicked out at an errant rat as it darted from one hole to the next.

In preparation for today she had opened the main kitchen window and the sunlight burst through highlighting the filth that Stephen had only previously glanced. Years of clutter and waste were piled high. Paintings hung crooked, wet and decayed - their original imagery lost to time. Alabaster white bones were strewn across the floor, some were bestial others human like. Her tatty dress would make waves in the dust only for it to settle and the floor lost once again. The dappled sunlight tried to shine on glass jars but their age and tattiness made it impossible. A leak from the old boiler room in the roof above the kitchen sent a constant trickle of water down the wall near the sink and green moss grew from its edges. In fact, on closer inspection, though you wouldn't want to get that close, the walls were alive with a green best left alone in our darkest nightmares.

As Patience shuffled from here to there readying herself, Petra began to pulse \- Susie was waking up.

5

'The black summer heat grows, young Susie. The crows circle, they cackle like fools and you dance to it like a shadow under an old oak tree. For years I have seen you, undressing in the moonlight, I watched you disappear into men's beds, I watched you disappear. I dreamed dreams that I dreamed of you and still dream. The Mighty One saw fit to cast your womanhood into the fires but yet that womanhood has blossomed like a fearsome desert rose. That heart shaped bone that was once your hips shall expand and spit forth a demon and your screams shall signal the end of the world. The earth shall decompose and we shall all bathe in the bloodbath; washing ourselves with the hearts of the young.'

6

Susie sobbed, her struggles long since gone. Her body ached. The scent of death was all around her. The air was wet, thick and hard to take in. Susie didn't want to think about what she breathing in, taking in. But that was nothing compared to the fear she felt. The witch was walking around her, talking in tongues, uttering sentences that made no sense but at the same time they did – uttering truths of her life that Susie wanted to forget - was trying to forget now that Stephen was in her life.

'Stephen has come.' A distant voice from the far room spat. Susie closed her eyes not wanting to see anymore. She feared what monsters hid in the darkest parts of this house.

'Open those wide eyes, girl.'

Susie felt two clawed hands rest against her naked, shuddering shoulders. The fingers were cold, scaled and tight.

She opened her eyes and Patience was stood in front of her, between her hands was a glowing orb and it pulsed in time with her own heartbeat.

Her hands were full.

Susie lurched in the chair, the rope digging into her chest and hands as she tried to turn to see who was holding onto her...

'We play with bones and juggle with hearts.'

...But there was no one there and yet the grip of the lizard fingers remained.

Patience laughed and threw her head back.

Susie's heart was racing and her chest heaved like a volcano ready to explode.

'Stop it! Please stop it!' She sobbed. Patience stroked the orb and placed it on the side table next to Susie. She could feel its heat.

'Hanged pigs and broken bones, girl. That's what will be waiting for you. Just wait and see. Trust old Lud.'

Susie shook her head violently from side to side. 'Please...Stop. What...do you. Want?'

Patience caressed Susie's soft wet cheek and ran her cold, long fingered hand down to her right breast; cupping it like it was a piece of beef.

'Cut it off, Patience. Cut it off and feed old Lud.'

Susie screamed but her attempts to move away were pointless. The scream went dry and harsh and then faded into nothing. Patience leaned in close, her stench causing Susie to retch. Un-cupping her breast, Patience placed her first and second finger into her mouth and then spat out white gloop coating them completely.

'Just a little poke from a couple of little pink sticks. You've had bigger.'

Susie's eyes were wide with realisation but there was nothing she could do and she braced herself.

'Don't forget what old Lud wants.'

There was a grin on old Patience's face as she slid her hand down Susie's abdomen, then her thigh and then on into the dark crevasse of her vagina.

'Hold still my pretty, could get messy if ya twitch.'

With a not so delicate thrust, Patience put the two spitty fingers deep inside Susie, feeling her way to what she knew she would find. Her fingers came to a stop when she felt it, but they weren't removed, she kept them in there for a moment longer, savouring the feeling. She grabbed Susie's face with her spare hand and their eyes met – one full of tears, the others - full of joy.

'Lud and the daughter will be pleased.' Patience hissed, 'You are with child. But you will forget.'

Susie didn't get a chance to react as Patience spat in her face and then kissed her, forcing her ancient, wretched tongue deep inside of her mouth. Just as the kiss was coming to an end, darkness once again came over Susie. She was grateful for that.

7

Outside, Tommy didn't really understand what was happening, nor could he see much. An odd darkness had descended over Patience and Susie but now that darkness was lifting and Tommy walked around to the front of the house and opened the main door. He was hoping that now was when Susie was going to become his girlfriend. He smiled as he entered the room paying little attention to the filth on the floors, the walls the ceiling. Even Susie, as naked as a babe wasn't a distraction.

He watched Patience gather the orb and slump in her favourite chair. She looked happy and Tommy knew that to be a good thing. But she looked tired.

'Is she my girlfriend, now, Patience?' He asked sheepishly.

Patience answered her voice slow and breathless. 'Not yet Tommy. Not yet. Give me a couple of hours would ya.'

It wasn't really a choice, Tommy was stupid but he knew when to leave Patience well alone. He grinned his famous toothy grin, turned and walked back outside closing the door as he went. He decided to go pick some flowers for Susie. That would help pass the time and don't all girls love flowers?

8

At around the same time that Susie was being violated Stephen was helping himself to some fruit juice and fried eggs with fatty bacon at the Travellers. The doors had been left unlocked, the bar unattended and now, thanks to the kind patrons of Rockfall, drank dry but he had enough to get him through. His bags upstairs had already been packed, stuffed full with the provisions Tommy had fetched for him. He was ready to go, ready to leave this place but he had one more task to fulfil before he went.

Once you have eaten, Stephen, you must go to the Court House. Petra has been starved for too long.

'As you wish.' Stephen said in-between bites.

Once he had finished he checked the weapon, ensuring all eight holes of the casing were full, and then holstered the weapon. He had adjusted his holster slightly so that it hung extremely low now, like a gunslinger of old. It allowed for a better draw but hindered movement. But movement wasn't a concern.

Leaving the Travellers, letting the batwing doors swing wildly he walked along the boardwalk ignorant to the stares and the idle mutterings of the townsfolk. They lowered their heads to one another, leaning in close so their whispers could be heard – Demon, hero, killer, Watchman. All were true but no one knew that. Carried on the breeze were the cries of the crows and the moans of the farmyard animals and with it the harsh bite of the sand as it pummelled the skin. There was a storm coming, one, maybe two days away and Stephen knew he would have to endure it on his journey. The boardwalk creaked as he reached the Court House and following the same path he had taken the previous morning, he ventured across the road, passed the water well with its ancient iron works and stood outside the decaying court house.

Kill them all, Stephen.

9

The sweat on the Sheriffs brow ran down his face, pooled under his chin and dripped down to his soiled handkerchief. His white shirt was damp with sweat and his gusset was moist. Jameson's fat belly hung double over his tight belt line and he sat in his mighty chair; the sun beating down upon him like hells fire passing judgment on those around him.

His office was large, dusty and full of junk. The table was festooned with piles of paper, documents in no particular order spread out until they formed a white sea. The air was stale like the air in every building that Rockfall housed. Around these parts the air was always stale. More so now; for in his office, set back a ways, were two occupied prison cells filled with two rather smelly, dishevelled, unwashed prisoners. The eyes of the prisoners watched the Sheriff as he watched them.

Jameson had asked his Deputy why he had done it; why had he done such a terrible thing to his wife? But the Deputy remained silent. Guilt etched upon his face. Jameson had known Ellen since she was a babe and it saddened him that she had come to such an end. Such a horrific murder by men who had no right to be on God's green earth. And the poor children. Who would care for the poor children now that their dear mother had gone? Everyone in town knew that the marriage between John and Ellen was a farce and that their love had blown out long ago. But their love for the children kept them together.

Obviously Johns love didn't go that far. It was the money that kept John there. Greed. Pure and simple.

It was a good plan that John had devised with the Quint brothers. But they hadn't factored in one slight problem; Stephen. The mysterious traveller from the good lands known as Ritash. He had seen been made aware of this plan and had done something about it. Some say he be a Daemon, cast out from the Void left wandering the bleak earth until the end of all days, but Jameson don't believe none of it. He had seen Watchmen before and even though Stephen was good he had seen better.

A few little mumblings, like criminals do when they are in trouble, flittered into Jameson's ear and he turned his attention away from the jumble of papers on his desk and over to the two cells.

'You two better not be contriving an escape plan.'

The two lovers stopped their oh so innocent mumblings.

'Aye, that's better. Keeping quiet is the best you two can do until I figure out what's best for ya.'

The Sheriff turned and looked out of the large dusty window and into the main street of Rockfall. The people he had been expecting where walking toward the building now and his heart sank a little at the thought of it. John had seen this face many times.

'Who's coming up the drive, Jameson? Your new Deputy, maybe? The bastard Watchman?'

Not removing his gaze from the window the sheriff said, 'I said no talking so keep it quiet if ya know what's good for ya! And you will address me as Sheriff from now on. We are no longer friends.' The Sheriff (for shall we call him that now) paused for a moment and in that moment he regretted asking for them to come and for them to see the face of their mother's murderers. But it was done now and it was probably for the best. 'Actually my dear fellow,' the sheriff went on, 'I am waiting for Mrs Depor to come along. And obviously where Mrs Depor goes the five orphaned Drive children go too.'

John went to talk but his mouth was dry. Cathy sunk back against the wall; her silence was a blessing from the Man Jesus himself. The ex-deputy couldn't believe that Jameson had organised this. Why would a man...How could a man do this? John wanted to puke and took in deep breathes to calm his nerves. Looking to Cathy he begged her with his eyes to speak for him and staring back at him was the face of a woman whom had been beaten but not silenced.

She lifted herself up and stood at the bars of her stinking cell. Her voice was low, dryer than the desert but as fierce as the sun.

'You heartless fuck! How could you bring them here? Why force them to see their Dad and make him see them?'

The Sheriff twisted the chair so he was sat facing the cells. The sweat was pouring from him now; the room had grown hotter still.

'I did not order them here, bitch. I merely asked if they would like to see their dear Dad before they went away. If they want to see the bastard that killed their Mother then so be it. I cannot stop them nor do I want to. If it were up to me then I would have had them pull the lever that sent you plummeting on Hangman's Hill. But sadly I have to wait for the law men to arrive from Westfield before any judgement can be made.

It was Johns turn to talk, 'But why did you...' But a knock at the door silenced him and made his stomach twist into tight coils.

'And here they be, my good murderers.' The Sheriff looked at John. 'Now you pull yourself together, man and answer any questions your kids have with the truth.' The Sheriff lifted himself from the chair and moved himself up to the bars of John's cell. 'The truth, you hear. They deserve the truth.'

He stepped over to the gloomy half lit cell that housed Cathy and was pleased to see her back away from the iron bars once he had arrived.

'And as for you, my sweet lipped little fancy... well you keep your fuckin mouth shut and your thoughts to yourself! If you as so much open yer mouth ill cut yer fuckin tongue out and nail it to yer left tit. You understand? Both of ya?'

Their silence was good enough for the Sheriff.

10

The sheriff moved slowly to the door, his huge weight and the stuffy heat dragging him down. Once he was out in the main hallway that had doors running along both sides, he adjusted his shirt and flicked back his straggly locks of grey hair. He wanted to look his beast for the sweet but yet vulnerable Mrs Depor.

Jameson opened the door and greeted the middle-aged woman that stood before him. Her face was long and smooth. Eyes full of wisdom and love and a mouth that demanded attention. In a crowd she could blend in easily but on her own she had a beauty that the sheriff could not pinpoint. Once the pleasantries were over he ushered the child minder into the station and with a nod and a semi caring smile lead the children in after.

He had no words of strength for the kids. He neither had them nor did he care for them. The children had to learn what had happened. They had to learn what men can do. Even men that you loved.

The office now fell silent, quieter than the deepest darkest cave. The atmosphere was harsh, full of knives and unsaid words of love and of hate. The children were ushered in, all five of them staring at the floor. The girls stood behind the boys and each one of them had their hands crossed in front of their stomachs. Their red eyes, glazed and soar told the tale of many a shredded tear. Their father, sat in the cell directly in front of them, began to shed his own.

With an audible click in his throat as he swallowed he spoke to his now lost family.

'You all must hate me?' He whispered but their eyes remained upon the floor.

Mrs Depor coughed behind her raised hand and her eyes scanned the kids and with a burning look that the Devil himself would have been proud of, she stared hard at both their father and his murderous lover.

For a while the three of them looked blankly at each other; not knowing what to say or how to say it. Guilt was a strange mistress and John was in her bed now. He wanted to tell them how sorry he was but didn't have the guts to do it. They didn't want his pity nor his apology. Al his children wanted, his dear sweet kids who hadn't done anything to deserve what he had done, was their mommy back. But that aint gonna happen and John placed his dirty shaking hands on the cold iron bars of his cell. He pleaded for them to look at him, sent out messages with his mind but to no avail. He heard the woman in the cell next to his, a woman he had plotted with and fucked utter some caring 'it will be okay' nonsense but he didn't hear it. John was too far away, lost in his own madness, seeing flashes of memories in his mind of all the good times. For there were good times. Seeing his wife pregnant, knowing that he would be a dad not just once but five blessed times. The day of their marriage, their first kiss and the first time they made love beneath the half-moon outside in the fields. Maybe this was punishment enough for John. Maybe not.

Looking over the scene that he had set in motion, the sheriff stood in the doorway, his huge frame leaning against the door frame. He was neither saddened nor pleased at what he was seeing. He knew what must be going through Johns mind, could see it in his eyes. But the children were harder to read. Their eyes had remained locked onto the floor. He took in a deep breath.

'Have you children nothing to say to your father? He aint long for us now.'

Both Mrs Depor and Cathy looked harshly at the Sheriff. He had spoken out of turn but the fat old lawman cared little.

'Do you not have an apology for your children, John? Do you not care a jot for them?'

John sobbed openly and like his kids locked his eyes upon the cold, concrete floor.

'I have no words of comfort for them Jameson.' John paused seeing images of the boys hurt in scraps or his girls petrified of a dangling spider, 'I never have.'

Mrs Depor leant over to the five children, her brow beginning to shine as the sweat built up. She whispered something to them and almost in unison they looked up from their dead gaze and looked at their father.

John opened his mouth to utter some heartfelt apology but the words couldn't come out. He stood there like a fish; mouth open, bobbing for air. He tried a second time and a third but the blank stares from his children stopped them in their tracks.

The Sheriff pushed himself free of the door frame and as he went to enter his own office a knock at the door made him jump.

11

Ten minutes is a long time. It doesn't feel like it, but it is. A life time of misery can be caused in just that short time. Lives can be taken and, on the other hand, lives can be made. For a Watchman days of planning can all be for a brief ten minutes of gun fire and blood. Stephen had seen this many times. Had dished out ten minutes of pain and torment many a time and as he kneeled upon the floor weeping into his blood drenched hands he wandered how many more he would have to go through before his time was up on this earth.

Jonah, the gun that had been with Stephen since he turned from a young boy into a man, was slung to the side of him. Discarded almost. It's dark, cold metal frame was wet with the blood of its latest victims and its barrels, the guts of the weapon, emanated a deep green glow. Jonah had eaten well today. Jonah, as Patience had warned, had gotten the better of Stephen and the bodies that surround the Watchman were a testament to that.

He remembered knocking the door. Waiting outside in the blinding heat for the door to open and for him to take the lives of Cathy and John. Their souls were needed for better things and Stephen needed to act fast. But there had been a voice in the back of his mind. A small voice but a vibrant, forceful one. He had tried to ignore it but that hadn't worked and the voice grew stronger. It reminded the Watchman of his tutor, how he had sounded, all throat and spit. You either listened to what he said or you faced the lash. The voice in Stephens mind threatened the same. It uttered sentences that he couldn't make out at first and even though he stood at the doorway for no more than thirty seconds the voice in his mind made the time feel a lot slower than it had been. Thirty seconds dragged out to feel more like thirty minutes as Stephen tried to shake the voice from his head. When the door finally opened and the Sheriff stood before him the voice became more than just an annoyance, it became whole. It just simply became, like water becomes ice. Stone becomes sand.

Kill him! Kill the fucker!

Jameson had smiled and went to greet him; outstretching his arm and handing the hero traveller his hand

Don't take it. Don't take the hand of the man you hate. Enemy!

Before Stephen could think otherwise he had drawn Jonah, the gun with a soul, the gun that had become whole, aimed and fired. Stephen remembered seeing a small red flower open up in the sheriff's forehead, the grin still on his face and moments later

Ha! Ha fucker!

the back of the sheriff's head exploding all over the door and the side walls of the court house. Jameson fell from the doorway his face landing hard upon the wooden surround. Dark red blood, almost black, ran from the open wound in the back of the Sheriffs head. In his hands Jonah began to throb, pulse with life. The whole was becoming more than whole now.

Move in Stephen. Take them all. I wants them all. Do it before its gone.

The voice was Stephen and Stephen was the voice. Jonah had done what the witch had warned. He should have listened to the old girl in the rickety hut. But Jonah had been too quick.

You aint seen nothing yet

Slowly, like a man in control, Stephen moved in. Like a ghost floating through a haunted church Stephen moved into the office. He hadn't heard the screams coming from all parties nor did he care for them. He couldn't remember what Mrs Depor had been doing, nor the kids for that matter - all he cared for was seeing to John and Cathy.

They deserve it Stephen. Use me. Use all of me

It was Jonah. Jonah had taken over. He controlled the Watchman now and his blood lust, his need for harvesting souls was insatiable. He gave up trying to control it, his minds calming words fell on deaf ears.

He moved through the office ignoring the five children and their minder and focused his attention on the two criminals locked in the cells. As he spoke to them, Stephen remembered his voice being quiet, without humour or concern. His mind was far off from what he was doing and what he was saying but somehow he had control over it; somehow he could utter the words he wanted as well as those of Jonah.

'Your lives are coming to an end.'

Cathy screamed, her mouth almost swallowing the cell she was in, her eyes squinting shut with the effort, 'You are no better, you delusional fuck. I know what you are! I have seen your kind before!'

Stephen shook his head letting the words go in one ear and straight out the other.

John had spoken next but Stephen couldn't remember what he had said. It was lost in the red mist that Jonah had brought with him.

'You two are filthy murderers who do not deserve to walk on the green lands or the yellow wastes of this world. Your souls shall join those of many others and be used as food for the Bitch herself.'

Cathy could only watch as the gun was raised and then aimed at her head. Behind him, Stephen could feel the fear that was rising in the children and there was something else. A yearning for more. More blood. More souls for the bastard Jonah. All around them the air grew hot, stale, the scent of death and cordite filling their nostrils.

'If you are looking for tears Stephen, if you are looking for fear, then you are looking at the wrong woman. I care little for those kids, I cared little for Ellen. All I care for is my John and you can go fuck yourself for all-.'

But her words had been cut short. The blast from Jonah echoed around the small office and the bullet it released tore through her face, shredding skin and tearing out teeth as it went. She fell to the floor hard, blood pissing from her skull. It sounded to John as she tried to say something but it was lost in the blood gurgling from her destroyed mouth and throat. The children as well as Mrs Depor screamed in terror but they did no try to escape. They were scared stiff stuck to the spot, their legs turned to jelly, and their guts twisting in fear.

The Watchman remembered back, remembered pointing his gun at John, seeing his tears, seeing his fear, seeing his soul. The gun in his hand pulsed as the soul from Cathy rushed into its barrels. But its appetite was insatiable.

'I am sorry for what I have done, Stephen. I cannot begin to tell you how bad I feel.' John sucked in a huge deep breath and turned his attention to the crying children huddled in the corner. 'I hope one day you can think better of me my children. I hope one day you will think back to your dad and say only good things about me.'

The ex-deputy looked back to Stephen and gazed into his deep dark eyes and in that moment he knew that Cathy had been right.

'You are what they say you are, aren't ya? I can see it in yer eyes. Should have seen it before. A killer knows a killer. Fuck it, fuck you and the whore bitch that...' But again Jonah's single barrelled bark brought silence to another and John's headless body slumped forward like an old sack of potatoes and leant against the iron bars.

And then the world went completely red and he knelt now, in the blood and gore of those he had slain and Stephen reached over and grabbed hold of a small teddy bear that one of the children had been concealing under her dress. It was tatty and covered in blood. Their father had died quickly. How he would have enjoyed killing him slowly, giving him the same treatment as the Quint brothers had given his poor wife. Scanning the room he threw the bear back into the lifeless hand of the child it had come from. The souls of Cathy, John and the Sheriff had filled Jonah and Stephen could feel it pulsing with a deathly beat. He had assumed Jonah was well fed and would leave well alone, but Stephen had been wrong. The voices, the controlling voices started to take over again, powerful, stronger than last time. They cried out for more. More souls for Jonah, more treats for Petra!

And he was unable to control the guns strong will. He had turned quickly and in one fluid, deathly, evil motion, destroyed the lives of six other harmless souls. He was killing without a care. The children tried to hide between the legs of the corpse of the woman that had taken care of them over the last couple of days but she could protect them no longer. Stephen out of pure instinct halted his deathly tirade when he went to reload Jonah. He looked at the weapon and smiled at it. Stephen remembered that. How easy death would come to the ones that he hunted. As if he had never stopped to reload, the Watchman carried on with his deadly tirade and now, kneeling in the blood of six children, their minder, two criminals and the Sheriff he could feel the power coursing through his veins.

12

He stood up from the gore covered floor. Jonah was holstered; his appetite had been sated. Stephen walked across the slippery wooden floor his boots leaving bloody trails like footprints in the deep snow, the footfalls on the bare floor boards echoed loudly in the quiet office. He marvelled at the lifeless fat legs of the Sheriff hanging over the threshold as he left the Court House. Not being careful and using his own feet he pushed and kicked the body of Jameson well beyond the line of sight of anyone passing and closed the door. Stephen wasn't surprised to see the road out front empty.

His tally was building up and so too was his awareness that sooner or later the good people of Rockfall would cotton onto his ways and set a mob upon him. Hopefully he would be long gone by then. Exiting the shade of the Court House he winced at the harsh sunlight pouring into his eyes, they began to water almost instantly. He was reminded suddenly of his training, of the words that were beaten into him on a daily basis – Don't trust in hope, trust in the now – Don't trust in hope, trust in the now – on and on he would have to say it until his throat was dry and his tongue swollen. He would have to write it down, not on paper, but in the dirt and mud of the training yard under the watchful eye of his master, Yarik. But Yarik was dead now, heeding not the words he trained.

Stephen wiped the tears from his eyes with a dusty, blood stained sleeve and walked over to the water well. He was thirsty but the thought of using that old contraption didn't sit well with him so he decided just to lean against the cool rock, his head flopped forward and his arms crossed about his chest; waiting for his next order. The dust whipped around his feet and the wind whistled through the gaps of the buildings. Last night those same buildings looked like rotten teeth, but now, in the light of day they looked pathetic; ready to fall with but the slightest of strong winds.

And then he knew what would happen to this town – it would be lost to the desert. Beaten to death by the sand and its end was coming. Coming fast. Stephen was but a minor illness compared to the fatal disease that approached.

He caught some voices carrying on the wind so he moved away from the well back toward the Travellers. But as he walked, he lowered to save his eyes being torn out by the sand, he got the feeling that something wasn't right, something was in fact trying to undo everything he had done here. He looked about, expecting to see – Black Sorcerer – something, anything; but he was alone except for the wind and the rocks and the road.

We have a problem, Stephen.

'What is it?'

The witch! She is up to something but I don't know what.

'So?'

The wind howled some more and the old rickety signs above the stores creaked and groaned like laughing hyenas. The crows had fallen silent but their cries had been replaced by the nervous screams of the animals.

She has fooled us both, Stephen! She means to have it! She means to have it all and by doing so will bring about the end of me, the end of you and the end of your dreams. Run! Run as if old Lud was at yer heels!

Stephen didn't know who Lud was, but it didn't matter. With the wind at his back he headed back out into the fringes of the desert and back to the wretched hovel of Patience.
Mashed Up Blackberries

1

He ran until his legs burnt and his chest heaved. But he didn't stop. His shirt was drenched with sweat, his body hotter than a bread oven. But he didn't stop. His leapt over rocks, slid down into shallow valleys and kicked through razor bush. He was on the same path that Susie had been on earlier and he skated down the steep side of the shallow valley where the lavender crew. His feet were more stable and his fast motions made it easier to run down the valley wall that Susie's had been.

Reaching the bottom he stopped – small drops of blood were surrounded by uneven boot prints. Two sets, excluding whoever's blood that was soaking into the dry rocks. The boots headed right, towards the old hut.

Jonah was drawn and Stephen stood in silence for a few moments, gathering his breath, composing his thoughts. The wind wasn't as strong out here, the valley walls were a protection for the time being, but soon the storm would turn this valley into a wind tunnel. The clouds above raced by, the usual bleached white sky was a now a deep blue – like an ocean floating above the land. Stephen followed the two sets of boot prints.

Reaching the broken gate he hunkered down; scanning the front of the hut for any signs of movement. There were none. It was as he had seen it the day before but this time there was a stench hanging. It was familiar to Stephen – it was the stink of death.

He walked around the gate and into the front garden of the witch. The long grass brushed past him and his foot falls crunched on the hardpan. His heart was pounding, the hut seemed larger, a black mountain against a blue sky; he swallowed hard his throat a chasm of nails.

'Whats you doing here, Cowboy?'

Stephen twisted to his left and raised his gun.

Tommy stumbled back his arms flaying like a chick trying to fly for the first time. His right foot hit a jutting rock – he teetered – was about to fall, but managed to right himself raising his arms high.

'Don't shoot me, don't shoot me, don't shoot me.'

'Who is in there?' Stephen demanded.

'Susie. Just Susie. Well Susie and the wit... I mean Patience. She's gonna be my girlfriend in a bit. Please, mister, don't shoot me.'

Stephen lowered his gun and moved slowly and quietly toward Tommy. He gestured for the boy to lower his arms. 'Don't worry, Tommy, I aint gonna shoot you.'

'Oh thanks, mister. But what you doing...'

Stephen swung his right arm and smashed his gun hand against the side of Tommys head asking the young chap fall to the floor in a heap.

Stephen kicked the unconscious Tommy hard in the gut as he lay prone on the floor. 'As I said you stupid little cunt, I aint gonna shoot ya.'

2

Stephen kicked out at the old door and it exploded in a web of wood and iron. He charged in, Jonah leading the way screaming a bestial battle cry and he stepped from the bright desert into the gloom filled fuckery of Patience's home. His voice echoed in the wet air and his boots crunched on alabaster bones and broken floorboards.

He came to a halt, stood exactly where he had been the day before. He hadn't even noticed the girt to his side – he was solely focused on the bitch stood before him, her tatty black dress swaying in an unfeeling breeze, her eyes wide with murderous intent, her mouth wide showing yellowed teeth crooked and smashed with age. In her hands she grasped tight the orb known as Petra.

'You dare enter here, Watchman. You dare to think you have the right to raise yer cunny weapon at me!'

'Shut up, witch. Shut your fucking mouth before I fill it with lead. Where is the girl?'

Patience laughed, the orb pulsing.

'HE IS A STRONG ONE, ISNT HE. CAN SEE WHY THEY WANT HIM,' the strange voice from the back of the house yelled, but Stephen paid it little attention. It was the witch he was focused on.

'Not strong...'

'Where is the girl, Patience?' Stephen took a step forward, stretching his gun further into the room. His eyes were ablaze and filled with a putrid green glow only Patience could see.

She nodded her acceptance of the situation. 'I see he has taken you. Quicker than I thought, but never the mind. You are no match for me, Watchman, have I not proved that already?' She grinned and then pursed her lips letting a little puff of her vile breath come rushing out.

The tiny breath turned into a solid wall of air and it hit Stephen hard. Dust and bones and filth flew into the air, the house rocked on its foundations but Stephen didn't budge an inch.

Patience's old face was wide with shock and Stephen noted a slight tremble in her hands. The orb pulsed fiercely.

'AND ALL THE WORLD IS TURNING GREEN; HE WILL BE THE DEATH OF US, THE DEATH OF US ALL! YOU MUST DESTROY HIM, WOMAN, QUICKLY NOWS SO THAT WE CAN TAKE IT OUT AND I CAN BE FREE!'

'What did you want with the girl, Patience?'

The witch went to move but Stephens glare forced her to stop. The room went deathly quiet, the dripping from the boiler room ceased and the scurrying rats paused in the search for food.

'Ha, you think you are so strong and so wise. I fucking spit at what you are you petulant little cunt,' Patience clutched the orb between her left forearm and chest using her right hand to point at him and the girl still slumped in the chair, 'You wants to know what I wanted. Well okay. I wanted the child in her gut, boy. I wanted it and I will take it.'

Patience raised her right hand and swiped it hard towards the floor. A coil of blue spark leapt out from her fingers, spreading out light lightning before hitting the floor surrounding Stephen in an arc of hot yellow fire. There was a terrify scream, either from Patience or the wall flame, Stephen couldn't tell which and as he fell he instinctively pulled the trigger three times.

The first bullet missed Patience by a good distance blowing a hole in her wall and smashed its way into her bedroom and into the dark wardrobe where Jonah had been kept. The second bullet was closer, much closer and Patience moved quickly to her left to get out of its way. But she had been deceived by her own magic, the noise from the fire beast released from her hand had swallowed up the third blast from Jonah and as she moved to her left the third bullet tore through the high collar of her tatty dress, ripped apart her throat and went sailing on through the house finally coming to a rest in the back wall.

'SEEMS AS THOUGH WE ARE NEVER TO BE TOGHETHER, SWEET WOMAN.' The mysterious voice said and then went quiet.

Stephen inhaled the smoke from the fire and before he could think to react, he passed out feeling the weight and claws of some kind of fire orange beast upon him as he went into the dark.

3

Patience kept the fire beast alive for as long as she could, but eventually she had to let it go. As the blood pooled, mixing with the gore of her throat she was reminded of her mother and the pies she made full of mashed up blackberries swimming in their own blood black juices. Her mother had been like her and had come to a similar end. She remembered the words her mother had said as she lay slumped on the bed, the knife in her chest sticking out. Both of them had loved but could not keep that love. In her last breaths, Patience repeated what her mother had said; only this time it made sense –

'Under the old oak tree we danced, hidden in the shadows our love flew and took us away. But we can never be together, even though we try and I have to watch you disappear and hope that you come back to me in my dreams we can never be together and we must walk onto the Green Path alone. The man will come, see the green man, see him well for the green man spells the death of us all.'

As the smoke drifted out of the house it revealed to Tommy the three bodies of Patience, Susie and Stephen. He cared little for Stephen, especially now – not only had he punched him hard in the face he had killed his girlfriend and he had killed his oldest and dearest friend.

4

Tommy ran through the streets of Rockfall screaming of bloody murder. It wasn't long before a mob was forming.

5

Stephen had skirted around the border of Rockfall, carrying the unconscious body of Susie upon his back. He had sneaked through the backstreets and found the side entrance to the Travellers Last. The mob had formed and they were baying for his blood. But a mob is stupid and Stephen wasn't that too surprised to have made it back safely even though he was impeded by the girl slumped across his shoulders.

Walking through the empty bar, Stephen placed her gently onto the closest table to the counter and breathed out with exhaustion and relief. He stretched his back out felling, and hearing it click back into place. Stephen grabbed himself a fresh glass of water and drank it down. He was about to go for a second when he heard shuffling as Susie rolled onto her side and vomited onto the dusty floor. The sun shone through the cobwebbed window and shimmered in her hair. Even now as she lay on her side her left hand propping her up and with her head lolled over, puke streaming from her mouth she was still good looking and it would be a shame to have to go. But he had to go.

6

After a few minutes Susie stopped throwing her guts up and she stroked her hands through her hair. She had the air of someone who for a short while was unsure of what was going on. Stephen grabbed another glass of water and took it over to the stricken girl taking care to dodge the puke on the floor. In her he could see confusion.

'The witch put a hex on you, Susie. She then tried to kill me.' He handed her the drink and continued, 'but she wasn't good enough.'

Susie took a deep breath she looked at the man in front of her, her eyes working quicker than her brain.

'Is she dead? What about Tommy, is he okay?

'I killed her.'

Susie looked up to the man she loved her eyes squinting against the bright sun pouring through the windows.

'You killed her!'

Stephen did not turn to face her. He had no need to now. He was distancing himself from her.

'To say it twice does not change the outcome. She threatened me, she almost killed you. Her death was as certain as the rising sun from that moment on.'

'What about Tommy?'

Stephen clenched his fist tight and glanced out of the window. Time was getting short. 'He lured you to her so I taught that stupid prick a lesson.'

Susie held her head in her hands and took in a deep breath. A headache was beginning to stab at her, right in the centre of her forehead. Her mind raced. Too much had happened to her in the last few days. Behind her hands she asked 'What did she want with me,' Opening her hands she looked back at her lover. 'From us?

'From me? Nothing. I was an obstacle she didn't expect.' He turned and looked at the young woman. 'From you? Blood. Blood to keep her alive. It is magic that keeps, that kept her on this world. Dark magic needs blood.'

'But why me? Why me?

Stephen walked over and took the glass away from Susie and drank the rest of the water. It tasted so sweet. So pure. He savoured it knowing it wouldn't be long before he was yearning for such a drink again. Placing the glass on a table behind him he finally answered.

'She did not have time to answer my questions, Susie, and a woman like that doesn't give up her secrets to easily.'

Susie fell silent and twisted her body so that she sat upon the table her legs dangling. She held her head in her hands as the ache in her head grew stronger. She was expecting to feel the hands of her man upon her shoulders, or his lips upon her cheek but she felt nothing. He wasn't even looking at her anymore.

Stephen sensed her need.

'The ache in your head will pass in time. You must understand that I had no choice, Susie, she had to die. It was either us or her. I could not let that happen.'

Susie looked up and removed her head from her hands. Her eyes were narrow, focused on the man in front of her, a man she thought that loved her.

'What could you not let happen? Me dying or you?'

There was an uneasy silence. Stephen could have loved this girl he supposed, but there was no place for a love like that in a life meant for greater things. Though he was still unsure what those things actually were. What was becoming evident was that he needed to leave and getting into arguments, lovers tiffs, was not an option open to him. He could see the tears welling in her eyes with every passing second.

'You are tired, Susie. You need rest and then a good long soak in a bath.'

The girl said nothing. His disdain for her was growing. Such a silly little girl. Susie couldn't believe how distant, how un-loving Stephen was being. Without a passing glance Susie climbed off the table, walked up the creaking stairs, through the corridor, opened the bedroom door, the bedroom they once shared and slammed the door behind her.

The echo of the slam reverberated off the walls of the bar and rattled the windows and made the old piano ring out a duff chord.

The Watchman sat himself down at the bar on one of the high stools and listened until his mind blotted out the sobs and whimpers of the girl that carried his child.

7

Half an hour past by and his time here was coming to an end. Stephen remained in his lonesome chair listening and waiting. His body had almost shut down, a skill he had mastered during his final years at school. Recuperation could take days for some but for Stephen it was but a matter of minutes.

Stephens calm was quickly quashed as from the main door, a door which he closed blocking the outside world, there came a hollering.

'STEPHEN! GET OUT HERE!'

The Watchman recognised the voice on the other side of the door and he was surprised to hear it.

Stephen stood and slid the stool under the bar. With his right hand he un-holstered Jonah. Checking the weight he had no need to load. Slowly he walked over to the main door and softly unlocked it. Twisting the knob he opened the door letting the sunlight fill the bar. He was not afraid.

The Watchman focused on the young man stood below him, the boardwalk and the stairs separating them. Behind the young man a crowd of people, forty to fifty but no more than that, stood hands raised with weapons of all descriptions flaying in the wind swept road. A blood lust had washed over the town and it was the young man in-front of him that had caused it.

'So, young Tommy, you are here for revenge? I see you have brought the very people who mock and spit at you?'

'You killed them. You killed Patience! You killed them all!'

The Watchman chuckled as the crowd yelled a bunch of idle threats at him.

'They all deserved, especially her Tommy. She used this town and in time you will thank me as you thanked me when I rid this place of the Quint brothers.'

The people behind Tommy lowered their weapons and looked about themselves. They all knew the truth about the old woman who lived beyond the boundaries of the town. She was tricksy and full of hate but they needed her from time to time; when it suited their own gains or their own evils. Mostly they knew that Rockfall was better off without her.

Tommy knew more however and it once again would prolong Stephens's time in Rockfall.

'What about the Sheriff. Whats about those poor kids!'

The crowd reared up again, the weapons high. They wanted revenge

Stephen measured the situation whilst the crowd bade for his blood and Tommy egged them on every step of the way.

The shouting from the crowd grew as the minutes passed without answer from the Watchman. They all were watching him; waiting for his defence. Waiting for him to raise the weapon and fire it. They would be upon him like waves upon the shore and they would break him. That they were sure of. They would break him. String him up like the criminals of old.

Sensing a presence behind him, Stephen focused back onto Tommy as he saw the young man move toward him.

'Stay away from him, Susie. Stays away. He is evil.'

Stephen did not turn when he spoke to the girl.

'Go back inside, Susie.'

She scanned the angry crowd. She had heard what Tommy was saying. It was hard not to. They claimed Stephen had killed John and Cathy, two people she cared little for, but the children. She had watched them grow up. Taught the girls how to sow and the boys how to play tricks. She couldn't believe Stephen was capable of such things.

'Why did you kill them?' She asked quietly taking the Watchman by surprise.

'Just go inside, Susie.'

'GET AWAY FROM HIM!'

'Why did you kill them, Stephen?'

'Go inside, Susie, please.'

'GET AWAY, SUSIE!'

'Why did you kill them?'

Stephen turned and grabbed Susie by the arms. He pushed her back through the doors and inside the Travellers.

The crowd surged forward and this time it was unable to stop itself. Stephen turned to see the crowd pouring up the stairs and across the sidewalk. Their arms were raised, their weapons; items grabbed quickly like axes, mallets, hammers, rakes and sticks would do so much damaged if left to do so. The Watchman ran to the main door, causing Susie to fall to the floor, and slammed it shut locking it tight. Hands pummelled it and he could hear them all crying out for justice. Crying out for blood. The mob mentality was taking over now. Soon, once all the blood had been spilt and the bodies were being counted they would question why. The Watchman staggered back toward the stairs almost tripping over Susie who was still lying on the floor.

'Why did you do it, Stephen? I thought you were a good man. I thought you loved me?'

Stephen turned and faced the main door, which was fairing quite well under the pressure. Susie began to cry again and her sobs were an annoyance to Stephen. He was preparing himself now. Thinking of all outcomes. Readying himself for the quickness needed to take down so many so fast.

'ANSWER MY FUCKING QUESTIONS, STEPHEN!'

Stephen shook his head. He had no need for this.

'The truth is not what you want Susie. But you will never give up until you have it.' Stephen removed his gaze from the door and looked Susie straight in the eye. He was the teacher now, not a plucky student. He was a man, a man that could end worlds, end lives and destroy hearts.

'So much like me you are, Susie. Always looking for answers to question we have no right in asking. I killed them all.'

Susie burst into tears. She wanted to be sick. She wanted to rip out her own eyes in fury but she had not the strength to do it.

'Why?' She simply asked behind the tears and the sobs.

'Because that is my purpose, Susie. My King requests and I deliver. He works, we work for a greater future one that you people will only appreciate once the work is done.'

The thudding on the door worsened and a few of the windows began to smash. The crowd were not going to take a locked door to stop them.

'What the fuck is that supposed to mean, Stephen?'

The question fell on deaf ears as Stephen focused his mind back onto the job at hand. The windows had all but gone now and the door was starting to splinter under the pressure. The people had broken through. Susie got up quick and ran; Stephen raised Jonah and scanned the few meters between him and the door. The killing ground was small and the bodies would pile high making it awkward for the rest to follow in and thus making them easy targets.

Maybe, just maybe, Stephen would walk away today.

8

Stephens mind was awash with thought. He had eight slugs in Jonah, a further sixteen, that's two reloads, in the small pouch tied to his belt. Stephen knew he could reload fast, like a blur to the naked eye, but would he be quick enough to reload twice with dozens of people flooding through the door?

He would find out quicker than he hoped, that was certain.

The Watchman looked about him for a chance glimpse of cover but found none. He had to hope that he could level off a good ten or more and then, if all goes well, the others would see the blood, hear the cries of pain and anguish, and run away as quick as their quivering legs could carry them.

The wooden door, with a thunderous crack, split and smashed open. Susie ran for cover behind the wooden bar, Stephen steadied himself, raised Jonah and aimed at the throng of people flooding in.

9

Jonah screamed twice.

The first two men fell, one with a burst chest the other with a hole in his right eye both wounds gushing blood thick and fast. They did not scream as death was instant.

Three more screams from Jonah.

Three more fell. This time a woman; a short lady with a mousy look and greasy brown hair and now a split in her throat joined the two men before. Screams could be heard now not only from one of the men who had received a bullet in the stomach but also from the people behind the fallen. Stephen took two steps back and adjusted his stance. His eyes were focused on the job at hand, his hands did not shake and his mouth was locked in a fierce grin. In his right hand, Jonah, the weapon forged by death himself, was silent. Light shone through the windows shining down on the dead, the blood glistening like fresh oil.

From the corner of his left eye Stephen spied a scurrying youth, an axe raised

BOOM!

The kid fell, silently, his arms falling slowly to the ground, the axe slicing into the old wooden floor like a knife in hot butter. The scent of blood and cordite filled the Watchman's nostrils as the Travellers Last became a killing ground.

Jonah screamed twice more and now time to reload. Stephen turned and headed for the bottom of the stairs. He could sense more people trundling through the broken door. There had to be at least twenty in the bar room now. Susie had disappeared and Stephen had to unload another round of slugs, maybe two before he dare venture up the stairs and into the relative safety of the bedroom.

The Watchman reached the bottom of the stairs in ten quick steps and in that time eight more rounds had been added to Jonah. He was ready for another bout of killing. Stephen turned on his heels, small dust motes floating up and he readied himself. Legs apart, heels dug in, right arm raised and gun firmly aimed.

The townsfolk of Rockfall were hell bent on killing Stephen, he had never seen anything like it. He was a newcomer to these people and still they only needed the slightest of nudges to turn into revengeful killers. He had killed people of this town that were best rid of. The Quint brothers were evil, heartless bastards. John and Cathy were only in it for the money and for fucking and the kids would have grown up to be just the same. And as for the Sheriff; the drunken kiddie fiddler was due for the chop a long time ago. Stephen was glad it was him that finally rid the town of that waste of space.

The Watchman could see the hate in the townsfolk's eyes now. They were full of it. Some seemed to be crying with anger and rage. They ignored the dead laying at their feet. They ignored the blood beneath their shoes and the gore soaking into their dirty jeans. The women screamed and held their pitiful weapons above their heads whilst the men shouted obscenities and waved their mighty axes, picks, shovels and lumps of timber.

Time was moving slowly. Stephen could move quick, fire quicker and observe more than these people realised. It was futile their resistance. He would down them all. But they held out for their own hope. All they needed was one lucky hit, one little blow and Stephen would be theirs and his death would not be quick.

Four more deathly screams blasted from Jonah.

Four more lay dead. Their bodies pushed back by the force of the slugs entering their chests. All were men, strong looking, with hands like shovels and chins like door stops. But they fell easily. Like dead leaves shedding from a tree.

Like a tidal wave they still came. Bodies were piling up but were being swept aside by the ones behind. The windows either side of the door smashed and pieces of broken fencing flew through the gaping holes. By the Healer these people wanted him dead. In the intense light of the day Stephen couldn't see past the main door. He could only guess the numbers. Two more men came running, one held aloft a pick dirty from the labour it had endured

BOOM!

He fell screaming bloody murder as the bullet tore through his rib cage and exploding out of his back. As he fell

BOOM!

the pick swung and cleaved straight into the side of the second man. The pick tore through releasing the man's innards to the floor. Stephen released another slug from the depths of Jonah but it was a wasted shot as the bullet flew into open air the air now empty where the other man had stood.

The bar room was finally empty. The people running through the door had slowed as the word of what was happening got through. From his peripheral vision Stephen saw two men coming in through the broken windows. The man on his right hopped through deftly and headed straight for the Watchman whilst the man on his left cut his arms to pieces on the shards of glass left in the frames. But still he came on.

Jonah was fired twice more!

They fell. And now Stephen was empty once again. This load of bullets hadn't lasted long at all. Barely a minute but eight more lay dead. Stephen loaded Jonah as more pilled through the windows. There were fresh shouts from outside as Tommy rallied the troops. The young prick was becoming quite the General. But he was making a terrible mistake. He was pitting peasants against one of the strongest forces in the known world. Stephens's position was perfect. He could see the doorway, the windows, even the side door alongside the main bar. Anyone coming at him would fall, as long as Jonah kept on firing Stephen was untouchable.

Three were through the door and posing a threat. Two of them were weaving, trying to dodge the inevitable. They were dodging no more. The third ran in, knife held high awaiting the swipe. Stephen aimed at the man's head. He wanted to level this man quick and hope his head exploded causing fear amongst his allies. The Watchman slowly pulled the trigger

Click

Jonah misfired. In the confusion Stephen froze. It had never happened to him before. The gun by his side had never misfired. The chamber hadn't spun either. The duff bullet was still there like a brick wall in the road. The man charging at Stephen saw his opportunity to strike and he screamed out in pure hatred. Stephen had to be quick. The man looked to strike Stephens right so he would step back, dodge the move and send Jonah crashing down on the back of the attackers head.

The man swung fast, Stephen moved back but stumbled on a loose floorboard. All the Fates seemed against him now. The blade was ten inches from his face and Stephen could do nothing about it. The Watchman turned his face and braced for the slice. Five inches away. The cut would do serious damage

A giant gunshot rang out.

The man's head exploded and the knife flew into the air. Stephen allowed his body to twist as he fell to the floor his shirt caked in blood and skull. The body of the man slumped to the dusty floor blood pouring from where his head used to be. Stephen looked to his right and there stood Susie; a smoking shotgun held in her hands. She was shaking, tears falling from her eyes and glistening on her cheeks.

Stephen stood and brushed down his shirt. The crowd had fallen back. Susie's shotgun had done the job. The red mist that had clouded their judgment had lifted and no words from Tommy would bring it back. Stephen looked out the main door and saw the shadows of people running back to their homes. Tommy was nowhere to be seen now. He could hear screaming and yells of anger as the truth of what just happened came to light. The men at Stephens's feet looked innocent, young and helpless. Their weapons were crude items, their faces full of shock. There were no moans. All were dead

He looked over to Susie. She kept the shotgun raised for a moment and then like the others, realisation struck and she through the weapon to the floor. She looked at the man in front of her hoping for some other worldly miracle to occur. But none came. The room was silent. As silent as the grave. From outside the creaking of the wooden walkway floated in and the two killers watched Tommy walk in through the door. He was crying and his face was red. His hands were dirty and he had a big black eye. He wasn't looking at Stephen, instead he was staring at Susie. But Susie eyes were far off, distant, in the world of her past when all was innocent.

Neither of them noticed Stephen leaving the bar room, walking up the stairs and into his room.

10

'Why you helping him, Susie.' Tommy asked as he leaned against the counter one hand on the hard wood the other caressing his soar eye.

Susie's eyes focused past Tommy and out into the nothing of the world outside. They didn't see the fallen, or the pools of blood upon the floor. She remembered back to her childhood. How innocent things had been back then. She could play around, fool about and have fear of nothing. There were no sheriffs or men wanting her body, there was no Cathy ordering her about like a slave. She was free in a sense. As free as all children feel. But now it was different. Totally different. She was in love and she has been hurt. Her body had been used and her face slapped time and time again. With Stephen she thought she could be safe. Be free. But it looked like that was not going to happen. But she had to know why. He had been kind, sweet and honest. But they were lies. She was clouded. 'Love is blind' Cathy used to say and now Susie believed her.

'Susie. Susie. Why you helping him?'

Tommy's voice brought the young girl back to reality. Her voice was distant. Soft as a spring breeze.

'Because I love him, Tommy. I love...' Her voice trailed off.

'But he has killed all these people, Susie. The Sheriff. John and Cathy. The kids. They is all dead and he don't care.'

Susie, her voiced raised looked at Tommy, 'I don't give a fuck about any of them, Tommy. The sheriff was a pervert who enjoyed licking his own juice. John was a conniving prick and Cathy was a using, selfish cunt! The kids are the only true victims here. They did not deserve what befell them. I will pray for them but don't ask me to feel sorry for the others. They treated me like dirt and I will never forgive them.'

Tommy was about to speak when the creaking stairs made him turn is attention away. Susie's eyes followed Tommy and both of them watched Stephen walk down the stairs, slowly, carefully and always watchful. By his side Jonah was visible. Its very presence commanded respect.

'Look at these dead people, Stephen. Look at who you have killed.' Tommy waved his hand around the many bodies. Stephen ignored them all. He seemed to be focused on nothing.

'I care not for them, Tommy, nor do I care for you. Allow me to leave this place and I shall kill no more. That I promise.' The Watchman reached the bottom of the stairs and held his hands out, palms facing the stupid boy. 'Trust me, Tommy. I have done what I was sent here to do.'

Tommy shook his head. 'I can't trust you. You killed my lady. You killed my friends.' Tommys raised voice made Stephen lower his hand instinctively toward Jonah. Panic flowed through Tommy. He didn't want to die and if he carried on he would end up like his friends on the floor. He had to think quickly, but thinking quick wasn't one of Tommy's strong points. He looked into the eyes of the man in front of him and then remembered the knife tucked into the gap between his jeans and belt.

Quicker than Stephen could imagine, young Tommy jumped the bar, scattering glasses all over the place and causing Susie to scream. He grabbed hold of Susie and pushed her in front of him. Tommy removed the blade and pressed it against her belly.

'Don't think about it, Stephen. I knows you want me dead, but raise that gun and I'll cut her deep!'

Stephen remained calm. He could see Susie was in shock but she would not struggle. Her mind was lost for the time being.

'Let her go, Tommy. Let Susie go. Your fight is with me, Tommy.'

'No, Stephen I aint letting her go until you drop that gun to the floor and walk away.'

Stephen shook his head. 'I am afraid I can't do that, Tommy. This weapon is my life, my soul and to lose it would be like the earth losing the sun. As I said, Susie has nothing to do with it, let her go and I will be on my way.'

Tommy moved the blade up and placed it against Susie's neck. The point of the blade dug in. 'I aint trusting no word of a killer.'

Susie tried to shake the young man free but he was too strong and in the effort the blade pierced the skin and a trickle of blood rolled down her neck.

In a flash Jonah was drawn. Tommy screamed, his grip hardened on Susie's arms and he moved further back, his arse knocking bottles off the rear table.

Stephen could feel the power of Jonah pulsing through his hand and up his arm. It felt warm, comforting and welcome. Jonah, on the other hand, couldn't care less. Jonah wanted it to end and end it would. The gun forced its will onto the Watchman quickly and easily. With Jonah still aimed at Tommys head Stephen said, 'This gun failed to fire earlier, Tommy. The bullet inside of it may be a dud, it may not. I believe it's time to find out.'

Tommys grip on Susie eased as his mind ticked over. 'What's do you mean? Don't you go being all clever on me!'

Stephen smiled a cold smile. 'It means, young Tommy, that when I pull the trigger your life is in the hands of the Fates. It's a simple as that.'

Tommy tried to move further back but the table behind him wouldn't budge. As he jolted into it Susie took the chance and she struggled free, her right elbow thumping Tommy in the stomach forcing him to move forward.

Susie was no more than two foot away when the trigger was pulled

Tommys head lolled back as half of it was removed by the slug which entered the right eye and exploded out the back of young man's head. The gore splatted up the mirror and all over Susie's back. Tommy stood for a moment and then fell hard to the floor.

The Fates worked in mysterious ways.

11

Susie turned and looked at the wreckage below her. Tommy was dead. She felt distressed. Alone and sick to the stomach. Forgetting herself she jumped over the bar and ran over to the Watchman. She hugged him hard and tight and for a moment she was oblivious to all around her. She was sure that she felt him hug her back but Stephen had not. His arms remained at his side his body allowing her to hug him.

And then it all came back to Susie and her grip on Stephen lessened. Stephen wasn't hugging her back, his head was not against her shoulder and his hands weren't brushing through her hair. She pulled back and looked into his eyes and saw nothing there. The man that she had fallen in love was gone and there was no trace of him left.

'Why?'

'You know why.'

'Why have you stopped loving me? I don't understand. Why have you done all this?'

'I never did love you Susie. You were a means to an end.'

Susie pulled completely away her eyes burning with rage. 'A means to an end! Fuck you Stephen. Fuck you. You have broken my heart, Stephen. You have taken everything from me and given me nothing back but lies.' She looked into those cold, lifeless eyes and saw no emotion. 'You broke my heart and you don't even care.'

Susie started to cry, uncontrollably at first. It was all too much for her and she was losing control.

Stephen had nothing to say. He knew she wanted to rip him limb from limb but she didn't have the mental strength. She wanted to beat him to a pulp. More than anything he knew all she wanted was for him to love her, but for real this time. But that was never going to happen.

His silence, as immovable as a mountain, was becoming unbearable. Her hands tightened with rage as the man she loved stood there and let it just roll over him like a soft breeze.

She shook her head and lashed out. Her balled up fists hitting Stephens chest time and time again, but still the Watchman didn't flinch. Instead he allowed her this mockery. After many punches he finally grabbed hold of her wrists and stopped her madness from escalating.

'Let go of me you bastard! Let me go and leave me the way you found me. Leave me with nothing after taking it all away from me. Just fuck off and leave!'

Stephen released his grip and took one final look at the girl. Maybe in another life they would have been lovers. Maybe in another life they would have been able to settle down. But that was the realm of fantasy. But he couldn't leave her like this. Something deep inside him, a remnant of the man that had left his home cried out for mercy.

As he walked toward the door, the pack on his back full and his body weary from the fight he turned and faced her. More importantly he looked at her for the first time in a long while.

'You say I leave you with nothing but I have given you something special. Something unique. I have given you memories, love that you never thought you could have and I have asked for nothing in return.'

He watched Susie shake her head and then fall to the floor tears flowing freely, her sobs loud and unsettling. When she spoke her voice was almost lost to the tears, 'All those memories mean nothing now that I can't have you. I have lost you and I don't understand why. You are leaving me with nothing and nothing you say or do can change that. You don't understand what you are doing to me.'

Stephen watched the young woman in front of him. She was carrying his child and that would never change.

'I have left you with something, Susie. Why do you think Patience wanted you so badly? Why do you think Tommy was trying to cut open your belly? Think.'

Susie's realisation was quick and harsh. Her head span and she looked down to her smooth stomach. Her shocked face made way for tears of both joy and fear. She could go with him. She could get her things and leave this place. There was nothing left for her here. She could follow her man on the path he must take and when he reached his destination they could settle down and raise the child together. She looked up to ask him, to beg him, but the man she loved, the father of her child, the man of her dreams and the killer of men had gone and all that was left of him was a fading memory, a crimson sky and a bar room full of dead people.

Above her, in the darkening sky, Old Mother and her daughters flickered with laughter.
Mid-Point

1

Stephen made his way out of Rockfall, walked true north for three days and found himself in the lush green hills that signalled the end of the Wastelands and the start of the Great Forest. He never truly entered the Great Forest merely skirted around it for a few more days.

The path he followed was an ancient one and carved its way through the hardpan and then deep cuts in the dirt flowed over and around the hills as the terrain changed. The sky would disappear under a roof of overhanging trees from time to time and then bright sunshine would pour through when the trees cleared. Devil weed and razor grass were now a thing of the past, they had been replaced with soft green grass and flowers that clung to the warmth of the summer. He had left the boundary of Ritash long since and now walked in a world he didn't know, and a world in which the name Watchman meant very little.

As he trundled along, the trees that surrounded him slowly evaporating, he found himself in a clearing; the grass gone, the dirt replaced with a strange hard black concrete with white and yellow lines painted across it. It was an old crossing of paths but one that had not been altered with the passing of time. Stephen had seen crossings like this, but they had been made of dirt, cobbles or in some places; wood. It must have been at least one hundred feet long heading north and double that heading east to west. Looking east, but not walking on the black stuff itself, he saw that the – tarmac? Is that what this is called? – went on for miles, up into the hills and disappeared as it touched the horizon.

He took one cautious step onto the road and when it didn't collapse or a bolt of lightning strike him down he walked into the middle of the junction and stopped below a sign that was raised up on wires that hung east to west from four giant metal posts that stood at each of the four corners of the black stuff. The sign wasn't rusted, nor pitted with age. It didn't even swing in the soft breeze. It was as new as the day it had been put there – which Stephen guessed would have been over a thousand years ago if the tales were true of such things.

The sign read:

North - Doscro/Hull/Tremaine

South – Rockfall/Wastelands/Ritash/ Rag and Bone Man (this was written in white pain, the O of Bone was a skull and crossbones)

East – St Petersburg/Under Path/Lud's Mine

West – Great Forest/Christian Sands/Gatwick-Airport

Some of the names Stephen recognised others he had never heard of. He looked at the four paths that lay in front of him. North seemed to carry on skirting the forest but looked to be headed for the mountains. South was out of the question. West, the path was non-existent and every time Stephen looked that way his gut twisted and a voice screamed to stay away – STAY AWAY!

East, the black tarmac road was smooth, flat and didn't veer; it headed toward the mountains into what looked like a valley between them – it reminded Stephen of a boy he knew back in Ritash and his mossing tooth right in the middle of his mouth. It was a wide road, perhaps two or three carts wide in both directions. Along its edges there were metal poles sticking up from the earth with what looked like spark lights at their tips. It seemed to be the only way ahead for him; no voice screamed its dissatisfaction, his gut didn't twist or hairs stand up on the back of his neck. This was doubly confirmed as the way to go when Stephen read the white painted words that were written at the start of the road:

THE CAVE -THE BOY

2

Deep underground in the caverns and tunnels known as Lud's Mine there lived an ancient race of men known to those that knew of them as the Clankers.

Their skin was pale, translucent in the dim yellow glow of the spark lights that lit their world. Their eyes were large, colourless and their noses mere slits. Most of them were emaciated; muscle stretched over bone held together by the ruined clothes they wore. All except one – their Chief - the one they called Lud.

He was old, for the mine was old and he was the mine and the mine was him. He had lived a thousand lifetimes of men under the mountain, leaving it from time to time but not as himself – oh no – he had tricks and gifts that meant he didn't need to.

A once good Chief, in the early years of the mine when the coal was plenty and the money rolled in. the mine had been fruitful; alive but now it stood as barren as his long dead wife. The days turned sour and the coal disappeared and with it too went Lud's charity, his good will – his soul if ya fancy. The rumbling in the caves had stopped, the furnaces went cold and the steam ceased to rise.

Surrounded by the ancient controls of his ancient machines he watched from his office as his men went about their daily tasks; oiling, tinkering – creating, the air filled with the smell of diesel oil, sweat and sulphur and always the tink-tink clunk-clunk of hammer against metal. He puckered is old fat lips together and made small popping sounds as he slapped them together; contemplating what to do with the boy.

Times were changing again. The world was turning, going back to how it had been when he walked in the sunshine and bathed in fresh waters. When he had taken a wife and danced with her under the blue moon as their song played out. He was glad to see those days coming back, but now they would be different for he was the master now. He scratched his fat belly through his threadbare vest – for it was hot in the mine; that was one thing that never changed – and ceased his lip smacking as he heard soft moans coming from the boy tied to a chair on the opposite side of the room. He breathed in deep and closed his eyes contemplating his next move.

'Mr Lud, sir.' A soft voice hissed from one of the speakers, 'We have a visitor. Coming from the crossing. He should be on your monitor.'

Lud leaned to the right, just enough so that his enormous frame moved so that he could see the small screen, its picture flickering. He watched it for a moment, the road was empty. He was just about to tell the fool on the other end of the radio what a colossal twat he was for disturbing him, when the image on the screen flickered and a man came into view. He licked his lips and started popping them together again.

'What do you want us to do, sir? The scan detects a weapon. Do we send out the Mech?'

Lud squinted; making sure the screen wasn't lying; making sure that the man that had come into view was the man that had killed the woman he hoped to have born his only child.

'Sir?'

'No, no Mech. We may have a use for this one. Leave him be, let him in. He doesn't know of us yet. I don't want to scare this one away.' And as an afterthought he added, 'He seeks the boy.'

Times were changing; the machines were coming back to life. Once again others wanted what he had. But old man Lud had other plans
The Book of Martin - Plans and Propositions

1

Reader, let us drift back a little, would it please ya, to just after the meeting between Stephen and Death, for our story has other paths.

The Angel of Death sat upon the harsh desert floor, his face pointed at the burning sun. He always felt calm in the desert, at one with the Wastelands. His burnt body, black as ash, was unaffected by the heat, the dryness, the death. He had been to hell and back, literally, and his body was a testament to that. This desert was nothing more to him than a giant sand pit where men came into and where men died.

For a hundred life times of men he had lived in this body and for another hundred more still, if he didn't have his way.

Deaths wings unfolded of their own accord, their time in this mortal world running out. He was magic now, ancient magic and like the Orbs; he had grown twisted, rotten, and un-well. He tried to look back on those times when he too was a mere mortal man. When he walked the world, loved, ate, slept, drank, felt the cool breeze on his face and the water on his tired feet. But it was impossible. He had lost that now. His soul gone, burned away by the Fates long, long ago and he was left lifeless but with a purpose. He could not simply throw himself from a mountain anymore or sink deep down into the nearest sea, for he was Death and death does not become an Angel.

How he yearned for it to be over. For his life to be whole again. Looking at the sun, through eyes that weren't there, looking at the harsh blue sky, bleached white with the heat, he sighed heavily. It seemed that all he could feel now was anger. But anger mixed with hope. Hope that soon, so soon, the Orb would be his and he would be free of this immortal coil and free to be human again. To love again, to eat again, to drink again and to feel as if ones accomplishments meant something.

Turning his face back to the floor he watched the winds move the sand. How like the sand he was. Where the winds of fate took him he would follow, helpless but willing. The Fates, however, where in for a shock. No more would he do as they bid. He had already disobeyed them with letting Stephen live, and in a few hours he would disobey them again. Martin Doyle's life was, at the moment, coming to an end. He had been a plaything for the Fates, he had been the one chosen to kill the one known as Samson Little but it had failed and the Fates had the answer they had been puzzling over for many a year and then some; the power in west, the one known as Barnabas, was growing stronger and it was up to men, mortal men, to kill this One King. But Death was unconcerned with such trivialities.

Martin Doyle would be saved and the Angel of Death would have his plaything. All Death needed after that was the white ball of evil nicknamed Satan's Eyeball - as white as chalk and with a heart as black as coal. She needed souls like all of them but her power was the strongest, if used properly. It had been Satan's Eyeball, or shall we call her Varula, for that be here name, that had made Death what he is now and it would be the same power that gave him back what he wanted so much; his soul, and if it meant that Martin Doyle had to give up his own then so be it. So be it.

Death stood, his huge frame blackening the floor beneath him in shadow. He stretched out his arms and waved them through the air feeling nothing. His wings unfurled once more, the sun shining through the soft, thin membrane. Soon he would step from this body, this dead ashen like carcass and into another body. Soon he would walk the earth a simple man again and finish his days happy. Soon he would eat, drink, laugh and cry. Soon. So soon. And if Death could laugh like a hyena and smile at the sky then he would have. By the bastard Fates he would have.

With no effort the Angel of Death launched into the air and headed for the small hut situated on the outskirts of the Wastelands and into a world where the Fates had control no longer.

2

Stood over Martin, with a wicked glint in his eye was a man he knew from Ritash. In his hand he held an ancient gun and that gun was pointed right between his eyes.

Martin, his mouth agape in shock – his eyes wide with awareness and anticipation – pulled himself back, hitting his head against the beds headboard.

'Fuck it.' He said.

'Fuck it, indeed, Martin.' Said the holder of the gun, 'Now get yer canny hands up and make yer way outside. Slowly.' The man who was dressed in a long beige coat, a Stetson upon his head – a white scarf covering his mouth, ushered with his gun to the front door. The bullets around his waist rang like dulled church bells.

The Marksman, shifted his weight, feeling for the soft prod of his weapon. But it didn't come. And then he remembered – he had left it in his bag. The bag that was now in the possession of the man stood over him. His old tutor would have beaten him senseless for such stupidity.

'Come on, Martin, up ya get. Quickly now.'

Martin made his way outside, the gun pressed against his back. He rested his hands upon his head and squinted as he moved from the building into the blinding light of the Wastelands. It was still morning, early, but late enough that Martin should have been awake by now. The sky was big and blue but instead of the familiar sight of miles upon miles of hardpan, Martin gazed out and saw the rolling hills and the dense dark green of the forest. He kept walking until he felt a hand against his shoulder. Martins boots kicked up small ash clouds from the night be fore's fire.

'That'll do ya, Marksman.'

Beads of sweat ran down Martins face. The sweat went into his eyes, then his mouth. It was a familiar taste and he welcomed it in a strange sort of way – the way in which the taste of your own blood reminds you that you are alive. And being alive at least gives you a chance.

The man with the gun walked from behind him and made his way over to the rest of the party that had left Ritash all those months ago. All the men looked travel worn. They looked as if death could take them at any point – their eyes were vague, their hands which held revolvers or a shotgun shook and their clothes sprayed dirt to the air with every gust of wind.

Silence encircled the men and then the man that had wakened Martin – a man Martin realised he knew, spoke. 'Not often you catch a Marksman off guard.'

Martin smiled. 'Just giving you boys a fighting chance.' He scanned the five men. He knew only the one by name but recognised the others. 'I should be honoured. Five Watchmen all sent to kill little old me. Guess they didn't trust you to do the job, Jessie?'

Jessie's eyes narrowed and his face puckered like he had sucked on the world's sourest lemon.

So you do remember, Jessie. I'm glad. I'm glad you remember what I did to you.

'That was a long time ago, Oath Bearer. Just boys playing with toys. Besides, I count five of us and only one of you.'

Martin nodded with agreement. There was no arguing with the math, he was outnumbered. But much like when they were boys, boys playing with toys, Martin had out smarted Jessie and now it was time to do it again.

'I knew you hadn't forgotten that day. I thought the beating I gave you would have mashed yer brain up pretty good. But I suppose a mashed up head is just what the Watchman General was looking for, so I suppose I was doing you a favour.'

The other four Watchmen shuffled and squirmed at the insult. Jessie ushered for them to calm down with his free left hand. 'Now, now boys, let's not get bogged down in this ancient squabble. Let's just look at the facts. Over there is a murderer, pure and simple. He killed one of his own and he killed the man than made him.'

What

'What the fuck you talking about, Jessie?'

'Oh, here comes the denial.' The five Watchmen smiled as one. 'You mean to say, and I must say that the look on yer face is priceless by the way, that you deny murdering both Samson Little and Eric Truth?'

And then it struck Martin, like one of Eric's finest swipes across the back of the head – this was the doing of Little. It needed no long winded explanation for the explanation was a simple one and it came back to the threat that Martin had made against Eric on the day he was signalled a Marksman.

'Would it change anything even if I did deny those murders, Jessie? Would it matter if I told you that Samson still walks this earth, that he is the true killer here?'

'Nope.'

'Thought not.'

Martin, his hands still resting on his head, exhaled hard. 'So gentlemen, what's it to be then? Am I to be taken back to Ritash and hung for my crimes?'

Jessie smiled. It was a dangerous smile; one that had been used time and time again not only for intimidation but also for sexual conquest – by the Maker how the women loved a dangerous smile.

'Nope,' Jessie said raising his own weapon, 'The King wanted it, but I can't be bothered with all that. We shall make up some fairy story of how you wouldn't come quietly. I can't see him loosing much sleep. And besides, I've waited years to get you back for what you did to me. So I shall shoot yer down and then cut off yer head as a trophy.'

3

'You can put your guns away, chaps.' Jessie said, and the four Watchmen holstered their ancient killing machines. Holstering his own gun, Jessie opened Martins backpack and took out his gun – its surface, even though dulled with age, glistened in the sunlight. From the look in his eyes, it seemed to Martin as though the Watchman appreciated his weapon.

'Going to kill you with yer own gun, Oath Bearer. Any last words?'

'Fuck you, cunt.'

'Nope.'

Jessie pulled the trigger and the gun shot echoed across the Wastelands like the last scream of the Devil.

4

Martin braced his body for the impact and took a step back. Many times he had faced off against more men, but he had been armed, well positioned and ready for the fight. Right now he had none of this and had no real training to fall back on; as Eric had once said – if ya caught outnumbered, with no weapon and yer cock swaying in the wind, then you are a fool for being there and no training from this old bastard can help ya.

It would be over quick at least and as he heard the gunshot Martin instinctively threw himself to the floor. He curled his body as he fell, trying to make the target smaller, he also mentally scanned his body for the pain the bullet was causing as it tore through his body. But there wasn't any. He then, in that single moment of awareness braced himself for what would be the death blow.

But it didn't come.

Martin thought he heard a scream, but put it down to his own internal voice and then an odd silence enveloped him. It seemed to drown out all other sounds and he was all too aware of his own breath; his boots scraping on the dirt and the twang of old bits of metal as they clanged together. He could hear his own heart pumping, and beneath him, buried under the hardpan, he could hear the beating heart of a scorpion. He raised his head, expecting to see Jessie either pointing his smoking weapon at him or the boots of the Watchman as he came in closer - like shooting fish in a barrel as he father would have said.

But Jessie wasn't there. The Watchman was about twenty feet in the air, engulfed by a giant winged creature as black as the night's sky. Beneath the winged beast, covered in their own gore, the other four Watchmen lay dismembered – their guts now a banquet for the oncoming crows and vultures.

There was another muffled scream as the winged beast took hold of Jessie's throat with one bony and burnt hand and thrust the other through his chest; bursting out the other side spraying more dark blood over the dry hardpan of the Wastelands.

The winged beast released his grip and tore away his arm from the massive hole in Jessie's chest and threw him to the floor; his body bouncing and snapping as it hit the rocks.

Upon their dead bodies the Angel of Death landed, crushing their bones with his enormous weight and he looked upon them with his featureless face. Martin could sense he was smiling for hadn't he been smiling the day he had come to the Marksman and told him of Samson's plans?

5

Martin stood up and brushed himself off. Scratching the back of his head he coughed out some the dust that had settled in throat and watched; a grimace upon his face, as the Angel of Death devoured the five Watchmen. He tore at their clothes and their flesh, feasting first upon their hearts and then whatever came within its terrible reach and its terrible razor claws. Within ten minutes, enough time for Martin to gather his backpack and his gun - which was located some distance from Jessie's body, the bodies of the five Watchmen had been stripped bare of their flesh and only their blood stained skeletons remained.

The Angel of Death stepped away from his latest meal and joined the Marksman in the shade of the hut.

Its stench was incredible; like scorched flesh in a frying pan. It made the Marksman's gut twist and he swallowed hard, burping to make sure he didn't throw up all over the place. He still hadn't really contemplated what had happened. And why.

'Looks like I owe you again, Angel. You sure know how to make an entrance.' Martin looked over to the corpses just as two fat crows landed upon them and begun pecking away.

'You will learn in time, Martin, that I do not do things by half. And yes, you do owe me, that's twice I have saved your life in one way or another.'

Martin chuckled. 'I guess so. I guess so.' His thoughts drifted off to when the Angel had come to him, back in Ritash and told him – had shown him – of Samson's treachery. He had been given a choice then. To do nothing and let the world fall or to act and to save the world, to be a hero. He had chosen to be a hero. But sat here, in the middle of butt fuck nowhere he didn't feel like a hero.

'Why?' Martin simply asked.

'That's the great question, Marksman, always has been and always will be. I gave you a choice, back there, when the world was a simpler place for you. I offered you a hero's journey or a coward's journey. You chose the heroes path and one day you will thank me for that. You can't see it now, like a fog; what has happened clouds your vision, but in time you will thank me.

'In the meantime though, I have a favour to ask of ya.'

'Seems fair. Though I can't imagine what I can do for you.'

'That town you are headed for holds within it something that I need. An orb, the one called Varula. I need her more than anything. Get her for me and I shall see to it that you shall meet the Sorcerer and you shall have your revenge.'

'And what if I decline? What then? I am getting tired of all this, Angel. Seems I am not equipped for such a journey.'

The Angel of Death scooped up a handful of sand and crushed it together in his balled fist. 'You are like sand, Martin. Supple, moving with the winds of change, relentless in its task for you will go on hunting Samson until the sky breaks and the earth tears itself to pieces. I know you care not for what Samson stands for, but the mere fact of his betrayal and of his survival haunt your dreams and is your one single thought.' The Angel of Death opened his clenched fist and the sand had become a rock. 'I can make you into a rock, Martin. Just do as I ask. Please.'

Martin could sense an urgency about the Angel. He was agitated, twitchy and on edge. He showed no emotion on its featureless face but in a way it didn't need to.

'I've heard of these orbs, Angel. They can be tricky to handle let alone stifle.'

'Don't you worry about that, Martin. She shall be well enough occupied. All you need to do is stay true to your path, hunt the Sorcerer, till the world falls away at your boots and you look out to eh wide expanse of the Great Sea, but on the way locate me the orb so that I can have it.'

'Why do you want it?'

The Angel shifted quickly, its great hulk stepping out into the sunlight, the heat from its body increasing. 'That matters to you not a jot, Marksman, now, do as I say or face the fact that you will never catch Samson!'

With that the Angel of Death soared into the azure blue sky and was gone. Martin was alone, the dust whistling around his feet like tiny dogs lapping against their masters boots. Silent, except for the crows as they pecked at their banquet, Martin remembered that a few hours ago he hadn't been alone.

'Albert!'

Where the fuck is Albert?

6

He wasn't in the hut and so Martin walked around to the stable at the rear of the building. There was a familiar stench coming from that stable – stale beer, horse, blood and death. It was quite an intoxicating stink, one that both repulsed and intrigued at the same time. He walked into the shaded stable, his boots crushing the dry hay and his eyes opening wide to see in the gloom.

Unsurprisingly, though he fell to his knees; his body and mind finally giving in, he found Albert laying on top of his old faithful horse – his chest had been ripped open, his guts splayed out for all to see. Beneath him, old Fanny's head was twisted to the rafters in an angle that should not exist. The flies had begun to swarm as the heat did its work to decompose the bodies.

Fighting back the retch, Marin struggled to his feet and noticing that Albert's eyes were still open, he walked over and gently closed them so that it looked like the old loon was asleep.

It was then that Martin noticed that Albert's lungs had been torn clean out and were laid out on the floor - neatly; like a well ironed pair of gore trousers. He then noticed, gripped tightly in Albert's left hand a paper note. Gently removing it, though it took more to release it than Martin had originally thought, the Marksman walked back out into the sunlight and unfurled the parchment.

Martin,

I have saved him from the cancer like I promised. He was cursed, Martin. Just check the side of the hut. See you soon.

Your friend

Samson Little.

P.S Sorry for killing Albert.

P.P.S Sorry for killing Fanny.

P.P.P.S I'm not sorry.

The Marksman scrunched up the note and threw it to the floor. Death had been right. He cared little for what Samson stood for. He didn't give a rat shit about whatever type of evil grew in parts of the world unknown to him. He just wanted a single shot on even ground. Just one shot.

7

Martin didn't have the strength to dig a grave for Albert, nor a spade for that matter. He could have searched Albert's years of junk collecting, but Martin to be away. Back on his relentless task.

Before burning the place to the ground, he had ransacked the hut for as much food and fresh water as he could carry – ignoring the trinkets, glamour ware and ancient pornographic images, and then walked around to the side of the house where Albert had noted, and Samson for that matter, laid the clue on the old loons age.

Albert had mentioned he placed a single white line on the blackened wood marking every time the bird had flown into the air and the storm had come. He used the traditional way of noting – four single lines then one slashed through at a diagonal for the fifth. The wooden wall, which was perpetually in shade was less worn that the others and there were so many white lines etched into its surface that from a short distance you would have thought that the wall was painted white. it looked as though Martin would count to a number unknown to even the brightest mathematician, but eventually he finished counting, the urge to stop and guess almost winning him over except that something deep within him that screamed to honour the old loon told him to go on and he shook his head in disbelief and to try and turn that disbelief into reality it spoke the number out loud.

'Three thousand and ninety six years old, Albert. No wonder you were a mad old fuck!'

When nobody responded he poured the gasoline around the bottom of the hut, making sure to cover Albert and Fanny and lit a match. He did not say a word of comfort, there was no one to hear it and Martin did not wish Albert well on his journey for he knew that he wouldn't be on one. The Marksman simply threw the match into the stable and stood back as the flames took hold and the old hut, the old loon and his old knackered mule burnt to a crisp.
The Hanging Fairies

1

In the one room he could not leave the rotten body of the Wretch King looked out of the window; he gazed wondrously at the land below. His home, the Castle Thraken Mur, was situated in the heart of the land known to all as the Shiftings, so called as the ground, the mountains, even the rivers seem to have a mind of their own and they move about changing the face of the world and altering maps. He looked over the vast grounds the castle held in its walls. The grass was dark brown and sandy, the trees short and without leaves. The stream that ran through the grounds was green, turning black as it entered the castle through a small grated drain. The sky above was dark as it always was and today a light mist was falling. In the far distance the mountains sprang up - as sharp as teeth, their tips coated in snow and their huge sides glistening purple and blue. Beyond them was the vast plains and beyond that the world that Barnabas wanted to control.

The Wretch King was weak, his return to this world was not of his making and he was desperate for the power he used to control. His eyes used to shine the bluest of blues but now they were as black as the night's sky. His nose was long, his nostrils wide and his mouth was large with a sea of sharp fangs. His body was thin, emaciated, and his fingers long ending in sharp nails. His blood red cloak was as old as he, its ends in tatters as it dragged along the floor when he walked.

Six hundred years ago he had been a strong, powerful man. A giant of a King. But in this weakened state he feared for his own safety. He could defend himself with some magic but only for a short while. After that any man, woman, child for that matter, could fell him.

But not for long. He coughed deep and spat out of the window. Soon the Orbs would be his and then he would be all powerful again. But Grendle was the key Orb. He needed her and he needed her quick. She could bring him life, a full body and the power to summon his followers. Old Green Grendle and then the one called The Boy would be all the magic he needed for the time being. He had sent men to find the Green Daughter and soon they would return for he had promised them gold; lots of gold.

The other Orbs could wait; but not too long. With their power he would be safe. With their power he would be able to walk the lands again.

He walked slowly over to his throne; his bare feet gripping the cold, black marbled floor easily. He walked past effigies of his forebears and strangely; effigies of the Kings that had come after him. It was an odd feeling to see ones past kings, then oneself and then the faces of the Kings that came after. How the people of the Shiftings worshipped the old kings. They were true heroes. But the people were no more. The Shifting's, like the old Magic, like their new King, had grown old and rotten and lifeless.

Barnabas slumped upon his throne made of black rock and reached for his cup of wine. He raised it to his lips and smelt the sweet aroma of the fruity fortified red wine. Drinking deeply he emptied the cup and lazily he let his arm swing down the remaining few drops dripping onto the black marble. He longed to step outside, to feel the cool air upon his face. To start his work in earnest. He was growing tired of the four walls which imprisoned him. He was growing tired of this place and yearned to be free of it.

A knock on the door to his right brought him out of his melancholy state.

'Enter.' The Wretch King hissed.

The door opened and a hideous thing walked into the throne room. It was tall, well over ten foot, its legs massive as too were its arms. From its rear end a long tail grew. The things head was long and thin but without eyes and it had massive ears. In its arms it carried a plate full of roasted meat.

'I have brought you your meal, my King.' Its voice was deep and throaty.

The King nodded at the man thing. 'Place it upon the table, Seamus.'

The man walked quickly over to the table and placed the plate of meat upon it. 'Is there anything else, your Majesty?' Seamus asked bowing as he did.

Barnabas waved his hand at the man servant. 'That will be all, Seamus. I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of today.'

'As you command, Lord.' With that, Seamus quickly left the throne room and closed the heavy wooden door behind him. The thud echoed around the room and the King stared at the plate full of sweet roasted meat.

2

After a few moments had passed and the King could wait no longer, he walked over to the table, picked up the whole leg of lamb, which was big enough to feed a family of four, and stretching open his mouth wider than is humanly possible and revealing a huge mouth full of razor sharp teeth he put the whole leg in and closed his mouth. The juices ran down his chin. He crunched and chewed until the meat was small enough to swallow. He did the same with all the meat on the plate until there was nothing left.

Barnabas could feel the meat feeding his weary body and he felt better for it. The next few weeks were going to be tough; his body yearning for something that could not be supplied until he had Grendle. He would simply have to 'put up or shut up' as his old dead mother used to say. But Barnabas was getting fed up with 'putting up'. He was 'putting up' with this weak body. He was 'putting up' with being imprisoned in this room. He was 'putting up' with that arse Samson Little thinking he was the Kings right hand. He was 'putting up' with Stephen thinking he was doing what he was doing for his own gain. Even the Angel of Death was seemingly released from the bonds of his slavery. The world had turned sour and it was Barnabas' job to put it right again like he had tried before. Tried and failed.

Coughing up a wad of phlegm, Barnabas spat at the floor and walked back over to the window. His mood had grown foul, his own thoughts provoking it. He scratched at the stone windowsill his sharp nails cutting deep and he ground his teeth together. If someone were to disturb the King in this state then they would regret it for the rest of their short lives. So, because of this, we shall leave the King to his own thoughts, evil and bleak as they may be. We shall leave the land called Shifting's and not return for a short while. As you can see; all is not what it seems in the worlds of Samson, Stephen and Martin, their lives mere puppets of the Wretch King.

3

He trundled through the dark forest, did the Black Sorcerer, his face full of smiles, his laughter bursting forth sometimes like a prank playing child getting one over on his school friends. The forest on the edge of the Wastelands was lush, full of life, a stark opposite to the desert which the Sorcerer had crossed, played his own games and then left his first real mission for the One King complete.

Samson was a happy man. Never been so happy. He had control over the Black Orb. He had used Albert, maybe too much, after all, he could have taken the soul of the old loon easily, but Samson couldn't deny himself the fun, and with Albert's soul now Arda's, the Black bitch was sustained for a few more days.

The thought of the Marksman took the smile from Samson's face. Martin Doyle; the thorn in Samson's foot, the itch that could not be scratched. Martin was proving to be a hard man to turn and would continue to be so maybe until the end. Using the Orb to see far distances, Samson had watched the Angel of Death slay five men, five Watchmen, easily. Samson would love the pleasure of killing the fuck that tried to kill him but his One King wanted Martin. Wanted him as a prize, a plaything and a General.

The smile returned to the Sorcerers face for Samson knew he too was a hard man to kill. He was powerful. His gun skills, whilst not as good as Martins, were outstanding, but he now had Dark Magic at his command and that was what set him apart. And Samson also knew that the One King was scared of him. Scared that Samson might turn and destroy the fragile King. But Samson did not want that. Not yet anyway. The Orbs were all that mattered at the moment. He had Arda and was happy with her for the time being. He had traded his own soul for the power that he now commanded and it would need the souls of others to keep her in tow.

Samson let out another bark of laughter at how far he had come, unaware of the madness that was seeping through.

He only needed now to find the White Orb called Varula. He hadn't been able to track her down yet. Folk lore had led him to Arda but there were no stories about the one nicknamed Satan's Eyeball. It was frustrating. He had only heard a wisp of a rumour that it might be somewhere around the town of Christian Sands. But that was less than hearsay. The weakest of the Orbs but yet one of the hardest to find and of course, to find the Orb meant conquering the Orb and that is always hard. They need souls, lots of them and Samson, to get souls, needed bodies.

Samson Little scurried a little faster now through the lush green forest his black cloak skipping across the dead leaves; his boots covered in mud. He had plans. Not very good ones, but anything was better than no plan at all.

4

The next morning Samson got up early, early enough to hear the birds sing their morning chorus. He was at his happiest in the forest. Always had been. Some of his fondest childhood memories involved the forest in some way; hiding up trees away from his father, playing 'hunt the witch' with his mother and playing 'army' with his friends from school. So many secrets could be hidden in a forest, so many tricks could be played, and Samson played his fair share of tricks on his friends.

He walked for many hours, the forest becoming clearer with each passing hour until by three in the afternoon the forest gave way to the great rolling plains of the west lands. The land was flat, green with a huge sky above. In the bright sun it looked heavenly. Looking behind him, Samson found it hard to believe that behind the vast forest there lay a massive desert, deadly, harsh, and unforgiving in its nature and now here he was; stood on wide open plains, full of water, full of life.

The soft grass felt good underfoot and Samson removed his hard boots and walked barefoot for some time. The grass, green and yellow, tickled his feet and swept across his ankles like a hundred cats walking past brushing him with their tails. As he walked he hummed old songs that he thought he had forgotten and watched the clouds sweep across the sky, the birds flying in their odd circles and listened to the crickets buzzing in the long grass.

The air grew sweet the further from the forest he went and soon, on the horizon, Samson could make out the vague outlines of hundreds of white roofed bee hives were the people of Christian Sands bred bees for honey. Samson kept on walking, forgetting for the moment who he was and what he was doing. He was happy. A man that had committed many wrongs and would continue to do so was, for the moment, a free man. At the will of no tyrant King nor at the will of the bitch Arda. From horizon to horizon in all directions there was nothing but green grass and blue sky. The wind rushed through his cloak bellowing it out revealing the slight frame of the Sorcerer and wrapped around his waist the sack holding Arda.

By the time Samson neared the fenced off area holding the many bee hives the sky was darkening and dusk was approaching. In the air around him the buzzing of bees could be heard but Samson could see none of the little flying bugs; which he was thankful for. The wind blew stronger and a voice was carried upon it. Samson looked to his right, from where the voice came from but could see nobody. The white fence stretched out for some distance left and right but along both lengths Samson could see no one. But yet the voice, which was singing a song the Sorcerer could not make out, carried on.

Trying to ignore the voice, which was distracting to say the least, Samson moved on until he could go no further; the fence blocking his way. Upon the fence, written on a rough block of wood in black paint and tied around a fence post was a sign saying:

NO ENTRY

KEEP OUT

Samson sniggered at the final comment:

BEES CAN KILL IF PROVOKED!!!

The singing stopped and from behind one of the bee hives a young woman stood up, her straggly brown hair covered half of her pale face and her blue shirt and black trousers were covered in white paint.

'What's being so funny, mister?'

Samson looked at the woman, his eyes wide with shock. He had been so deep in memories, so far from the moment that he hadn't seen the woman painting the bee hives.

'I have never heard of bees killing a man before. That's all.' Samson moved a little to his left so he could get to see the woman better. She was tall, well over six feet. Her hands were massive, her face hard. He knew she was well built underneath that clothing and her eyes had the glazed look of a simpleton.

The woman stared at the black cloaked man that had seemed to appear from nowhere. For a moment she was concerned and that showed in her eyes and then, like someone turning on an electric spark light, a thought came to her.

'My old 'pa told me that old man Paulie got stung once on the neck and he was dead within hours, so mister, men can be dead'd by bees. If my pa says it then it's gotta be true.' The woman wiped a drop of snot from her nose and carried on looking plainly at the Sorcerer.

Samson nodded. 'Aye, lady, your father is right, bees can kill. How far is it to Christian Sands, can I be there by nightfall?'

The girl walked from behind the last weather beaten bee house, the rest all fresh white paintwork. She was tall, by the Maker, and her body, as the wind swept tight her clothes, was muscular. In her right hand she carried a well-used paint brush and in her left she held a large paint tin covered in old dry white paint. The woman, pretty in an odd way was too; covered in white paint. Her eyes, deep emerald green shone like marbles in the sun and Samson felt a twitch in his pants he hadn't felt in a long time. A long time.

'Abouts three miles, mister. Be there by sun down nay problem,' she dropped the brush into the paint tin then wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her large hand which, on closer inspection, was missing the third finger, 'what's yer name mister? Mine's Dotty.' She stood there, rooted to the spot awaiting his reply.'

Samson looked at the girl. How he could play tricks on this one. She was dumb and an easy target and he could have her eating out of his hands. He could sense Arda, a soft humming had begun in the back of his head and he knew she was awaking and would soon need feeding again. But that was days away. He would leave this young filly alone.

'My name is Samson. Please to meet you Dotty.'

Young Dotty clapped her right hand against her thigh numerous times making Samson wince. By the Maker she was stupid and he was regretting not taking advantage of her.

'Samson...Samson. I have a new friend called Samson.' She sniggered, turned and walked back behind the last weathered bee hive singing as she went:

'Hey doddle diddle the cat and the fiddle,

The cow jumped over the moon,

The little dog laughed to see such fun,

And the dish ran away with the spoon.'

Samson watched her for a few minutes then looked at the bee hives that she had painted. In the fenced off field there must have been well over two hundred of the small white houses. There were ten neat little rows of these houses and they stretched out into the distance. Each one had been painted bright white and they reflected the sun's rays almost blinding the Sorcerer. The white fence was tatty and worn and no doubt was the next job for the young Dotty.

The Black Sorcerer took one last look at the woman and watched her paint. She painted with a lot of care. Each brush stroke was given a lot of attention and she was oblivious to all around her. Her work must have taken days, weeks even and Samson wanted to meet the person who had given her this job as not only was it cruel, funny but cruel, it was also a good use of someone that has, in the real world, no use what so ever.

Samson, as he moved away with a smile upon is face, did not say goodbye.

5

The Black Sorcerer walked until he came across a well-used path. Wheel ruts were carved into the soft earth and he followed it as he climbed up a small hill. He reached the top of the hill after half an hour and he stood at the top looking out over the outskirts of Christian Sands.

In the distance he could make out the faint outline of rooftops and tall chimneys and in the foreground the track went on, crossing a river on a large wooden bridge. The river was wide and snaked through the earth from east to west.

On the left the lush green grass gave way to fields of barley, corn, fruit orchards and all were ready for harvesting. Warehouses were dotted here and there and under their roofs farmers kept their machinery, their harvested crops and their livestock and on the right the grass was segregated into many fields and in those fenced off field's cows, sheep, horses and the odd bull roamed.

Under the sound of the soft wind Samson could hear the clank-clank, thud-thud and chug-chug of machinery. Christian Sands was a large town by his memory, hundreds of people lived and worked there and most were well fed and well looked after. Like all towns it had its crime and its poverty but this place, this heaven on earth to some was more rich than poor. The sky was turning dark and in the west the sun was beginning to set turning the sky shepherds red.

Day was turning to night and just as Samson was about to head off an image of two fairies eating the man that hunted him filled his vision and the Sorcerer rubbed his eyes to try and remove the images. They faded away and the Sorcerer started to walk toward the town but again the visions came and he could clearly see the Marksman being devoured by two fairies.

'For fucks sake. That's not a way for a Marksman to go. He's mine you little fucktards.' With that the Sorcerer placed his hands upon the black orb hidden beneath his shawl and disappeared.

6

Martin Doyle left the hut just after dusk opting to walk the remaining journey across the desert through day and hopefully, within a couple of days, he would find the path that led out of the desert and into the lush forest of the West Lands.

He felt low. The Old Loon had been a good man. Honest and true, and Martin regretted not being able to save him. That regret, however, soon turned to anger and then to revenge. The Black Sorcerer had caused all this. Twisting the will of the King. Twisting right from wrong. But soon Samson would be dead.

But first he had to find one of the bitch Orbs. He had to find Varula or Satan's Eyeball as it is known. The nearest place to find information on the Orb would be Christian Sands, the large city on the other side of the forest, but finding information would be hard; the Orb had been lost for many, many years, and like all magic, the Orbs have found a way of hiding in the hardest of places.

Walking through the cooling desert he shrugged off the town's name and concentrated on getting out of the desert sooner rather than later. He slept only for a few hours during dusk and sun down making sure to walk double time during the night when the air was cool.

He spotted the first tree sprouting from a massive wind smoothed rock. It was tall, gnarled and seemed older than time. Its bark was white and its fragile branches stretched far out but there were no leaves upon them. In faded letters were the words - Rag and Bone Man - and below a small arrow pointed in the direction Martin had walked. The tree seemed lifeless, but it was still alive, and Martin could almost hear it breathe. How many years had it been there? How many years without rain, without the smallest drop of water? Without a good life? Martin walked into its dappled shade and placed his hand upon its rough skin, then, slowly, he placed his right cheek upon it.

The wind made the tree groan in pleasure and for a while Martin stood there with the old tree. Martin began to feel faint after a time, a sickening feeling rising in his gut. He swayed a little but remained focused. Something was happening to him but he didn't know what. Waves of nausea pelted him, washed over him like waves upon the beach. He tried to move his head away from the tree but it was no good. The tree was mystical, older than time itself and Martin was being taken. A part of Martin was taken.

He stayed there, under the tree, for the rest of the day and slept beneath it.

By late afternoon on the second day, Martin saw on the horizon the dark outline of trees that marked the start of the forest and as he moved further toward it so the sand gave way to gravel, then to stone, then to dirt and finally; grass.

When it was time to rest Martin had found the path that led through the forest and he hunkered down for the night meters from the hot desert but cooler than he had been in weeks. Beside him he lit a small fire and cooked some of the meat he had taken from the hut.

He would enjoy tonight the best night's sleep he had had in a long time, but above him, looking down with Cheshire cat grins upon their faces were two little fairies; eyes as red as rubies and faces as pointed as their teeth. Their little wings wrapped around their backs and their hands holding onto the thin branches. They sniggered quietly to themselves as not to disturb the sleeping Marksman. They sniggered hard for they knew they would have fun with the human below them and when the fun was over they would have a good meal.

When the laughter was over the girl fairy looked to the boy fairy and said very quietly 'We shall have to change the sign post tonight before the fatty man gets up.'

The boy fairy nodded and looked at his sister. 'Don't forget, Gretel that this one will have to last longer than the last biggun' that walked through here. Don't get all greedy again.'

Gretel giggled and put her small hand across her mouth. Her nails looked razor sharp in the moonlight and after a couple of seconds her giggling stopped. 'I can't help it. They taste so good. If you only cooked it Hansel, you would know what I mean.'

Hansel poked his tongue out and pretended to be sick and the two of them laughed. When they had finished they both took one last look at the biggun' asleep below them, unfurled their small fragile wings and flew off into the dark forest, sprinkling fairy dust as they went and making small buzzing noises as they flew.

7

Martin awoke; refreshed, alive. The sun was high, it was ten in the morning, and its bright light shone through the forest's roof in epic god rays. A light mist was rising from the ground, the grass, the moss and dead foliage were covered in a cool dampness. The Marksman marvelled at the beauty of this place, heightened more so by the total opposite of the desert not one day's walk away. It was a million shades of green. The trees; a hundred shades of brown and yellow. Martin felt strangely at home here, more at home then he had felt back in Ritash, in his own home. He looked back, toward the path he had walked down yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime ago that he was in the desert, but its dirt: its monstrous heat was still upon him, still fresh. He needed rid of it.

This place had once been the home to forest dwellers known oddly as 'Huggers' and when they finally left they had not taken down the small huts in which they had lived. Martin needed to find one of these for the huts where always built on, or near, water.

Looking over his shoulder, his eyes watering with the strain as they looked through the harsh god rays, he knew, instinctively, that a hut lay not two or three hours walk to the south, and the more he thought about it, the more he could see it; built next to a massive oak, its roof intact but covered in leaves and overgrown roots. By its right flank was the well which still had water at its bottom and a bucket on a pulley at its head. Its windows were black with the dirt of time and its wooden walls were green with moss and fungus. Inside would be a table, some chairs, a wood burning stove, a small stone hearth fire place and in the corner, the left corner by the fire, was a copper bath, a deep flame orange copper bath. And it was this bath that held the attraction for the Marksman. He would sink down into it and let the water flow over the edge. The water would penetrate deep down into his pores and wipe clean the filth of the desert.

The hunt for the Orb could wait.

Martin headed south. Thoughts of the Black Sorcerer were far from his mind. All he could think about was that hut and the bath that sat inside. He had to forget about the desert and the loss of Jonathan. He had to forget about the Black Sorcerer if he were to focus on the Orb but soon after an hours walking through the lush forest he had forgotten about the deal made with the Angel of Death.

If we were to look now, through the eyes of an un-bewitched man as it were, we would see the path Martin was walking shrouded in silvery glittering confetti. Fairy dust gets into you, plays with you; owns you.

Midday approached and the Marksman was drenched in sticky sweat. The forest was hot, humid even, and under the canopy of a million leaves it was sealed in tight like a wasp caught in a sticky jam jar. The sun only speckled through in patches but it was enough to heat the place up like the desert upon which the Marksman had walked a lifetime ago.

The path to the Hugger's hut had been easy to follow as if the wildness of the forest not dares to cover it up. Trees and shrub's dotted the green path and where they failed bright yellow daisy's shone like candles along a narrow corridor. The path wound its way through dense growth until the forest gave way to a bright clearing enclosed by giant Grand Oak tree's and the sun was allowed to shine through in all its mighty glory. In the grass, which was a wash of light green, huge amounts of wild flowers basked in the sun's golden shine and their colours radiated like a rainbow upon the floor. It was a picture of heaven.

Martin looked about the clearing with eyes full of water and wonderment. He had never seen such a place. Even the old hut, which was falling apart at the very seams, was somehow magical. The well was covered in dark green moss and the wooden construction that worked the winch was splintered and haggard beyond repair. It looked exactly like he had imagined and all thoughts of what he had to do or where he was going where gone. The invisible silvery glow emanated from the hut but the Marksman was totally unawares.

Everything was peaceful here. It felt like a home from home and the Marksman, now only a few meters from the hut, sat upon the moist grass and sighed a sigh of a million relieved souls. He allowed himself to relax totally, his heart slowing and his mind as clear as glass, and he fell back onto the soft earth with a thud; his eyes squinting as they gazed into the ultramarine sky and his mouth widening into a smile only akin to lovers.

He lay there for some time. He replayed songs sung by his mother when he was just a child in his mind and for a while he was a child again. He moved his hands out as if he was being crucified upon the earth and he plucked flowers from the ground. He tossed them into the air like he did when he was a boy and he watched them fall softly to the ground.

He could have laid there forever and a day; the forest consuming him like it had the earth and the rocks but a song his mother used to sing to him reminded him of the hut and the bath he needed to take:

Come one, come all, come ye Kings of men

To the hall's I call my home.

Join me now and know my love

We shall drink and we shall eat.

You are welcome here! You are welcome here!

What's mine be yours! What's mine be yours!

To the hall's I call my home.

He heaved himself up and sang the song out loud for the forest to hear as he walked to the hut he thought of as home.

In the trees above, little Hansel and Gretel laughed so hard it was enough to shake leaves from the trees.

Martin lifted himself up, slowly, thoughtfully, and he stood gazing at the Hugger's hut before him. He had walked a lifetime of miles in the desert. It had left scars upon his skin like ravines upon the earth. Dirt was in those scars, the dirt went by many guises: fear, hatred, anger, revenge but all would be washed away with the help of the Hugger's bath. In its water's the dirt would wash away and he would be reborn. Yes, that's the right word for it: reborn.

His search for Samson was lost now. His need for redemption gone like Albert. The deal with Death but a mere shadow of a lost thought.

Martin walked toward the hut tired. He opened the old creaky door and let the sun into what was a dusty old ruin and his body cast along shadow in the doorway. He stepped across the threshold and was amazed to feel such an intensity of heat coming from inside the hut. He wasn't perturbed by this only encouraged to run himself a bath and get on with whatever his life had in store for him.

He looked over to his left and looked at the fiery orange copper bath that was in the corner like his vision had foretold him. It wasn't green with age nor rusted through with rot. It was as gleaming today as it had been on the day it was created. The fire place was made, wood stacked in a triangle ready for the tinder and flame. All was well in the hut of a Hugger. Too well, but Martin did not consider this: the fairies' dust was working very well. Martin placed his bag down and stretched out his arms to the sky. The heat in the hut was overpowering and walked over to the copper just to be sure he wasn't seeing things. All was well; as it was supposed to be and he stood back and looked in wonderment at the copper bath. The heat grew stronger, blinding almost and he closed his eyes as if to escape it.

8

When he opened them the fire was lit, the bath full of hot soapy water and he was as naked as the day he entered the world. Not right you all think, but to Martin all was as it should be. He clearly remembered fetching the water, heating it up and pouring himself the bath. Undressing himself had been hard; the clothes sticking to his sweaty body but he was finally ready for the bath.

He wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat from the fire, the heat from the water and the heat from the hut was massive. But he knew that once he was in the bath, deep in its curved wall's, all would be well again.

Within a heartbeat Martin was unconscious and slowly dying. The fairies were still laughing though.

9

The Marksman awoke in a cold room. The bright light of day had turned into royal blue that told of the pending night. His eye's ached when they opened, his head throbbed and his body hurt. He could see the forest outside of wherever it was that he was and as he looked about him; to his bag by the side of the table to his clothes by his side and the rotten bath behind him he felt afraid for the first time in a long time. He rummaged through his memories to find his last one but the effort hurt his mind. He could remember the desert, Jonathan's death and the forest but that was it. He had no memory of getting here.

As his head cleared and the numbness left him he could hear a soft crying coming from outside. He lifted himself up carefully and sat with his bum on the cold floor and his legs stretched out in front of him. Over the crying he could hear a laugh, a wheezy laugh, a sick laugh, and then a voice that was all too familiar.

'You dumb little pricks - Never piss on another man's rhubarb - my dad always said and you have certainly pissed upon mine!'

The crying ebbed away and little sniffs could be heard.

'Please, mister, don't hurt us. We only wants' to eat!' The voice was muffled as if it was behind something and Martin wished this all a dream. He hadn't a clue what was going on.

He stood up quickly but froze suddenly.

'Ahh,' the familiar voice said, 'My hunter awakens. I must see to his needs before he sees to me.'

Martin looked to his clothes in a desperate need to find his gun but it was too late as in the doorway a wispy shape appeared. A familiar shape that was at the same time unfamiliar. He could tell that the man was smiling. Smirking the way a thief does when he has gotten away with his dastardly deed. All was silent. Not a bird sang nor a tree branch rustled. Martin stood as naked as the dawn and the Black Sorcerer stood before him; his dark majesty covering the hut in shame and hate and all was not well for the Marksman.

'Caught with your pants down, Marksman?' The Black Sorcerer snorted under his hooded cloak and walked into the hut closing the rotten door behind him with but a wave of his right hand.

10

Samson eyes were full of hatred. Martin could feel that hate in the air. He was naked, disorientated and for the first time in ages; scared. The Sorcerer had helped Martin to his feet and they had both stepped outside into the place known as The Clearing to the people of Christian Sands.

Sat outside in the lush green clearing Martin looked behind him. The hut was dark and not how he remembered it. His mind felt like it had been shaken and smashed up against a rock. He rubbed at his temples still not calculating what was happening.

'Take your time, Martin.' The Sorcerer said as he sat upon the grass ushering Martin to do the same.

The Marksman did not sit. He looked to the sky and closed his eyes counting slowly in his mind up until thirty.

Before he opened his eyes he remembered how he had gotten here. The desert had been cleared, the forest was open to him but he had been tricked by something. Something's.

'Little fuckers aint they?' The Sorcerer asked.

Martin looked to his left and saw two little creatures with pointy faces huddled in the corner of a small jar. From their eyes flowed yellow tears but their mouths were shut tight.

'What did they do to me?' Martin asked not removing his gaze from the two little things.

Samson sighed. 'Played you for a fool, Martin. Tricksy little devils them two. But not anymore.'

Bird song filled the air and Martin turned his attention back to the Sorcerer. His cloak had been removed and a familiar sight filled his vision.

'You still wear that shirt, I see.'

The Sorcerer nodded and smiled. 'I am still the man I was. Only stronger.'

The two men looked at each other. Martin saw nothing in the eyes of the Sorcerer.

'Would they have killed me?' Martin asked.

'Yes.'

So you saved me?'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

The Sorcerer ushered Martin to sit once again. The Marksman remained standing his body naked to the elements.

'Why.' Martin asked again his voice almost a whisper.

Samson licked his lips and rubbed his forehead. 'For so many reasons, Marksman, I couldn't begin to explain, nor will I. Now sit down and we shall chat a while.'

11

The Sorcerer allowed Martin to dress and steady himself; all the while Samson watched the two fairies intently, like a lion stalking its newest prey. The silence that filled the clearing was heavy and un-natural. Nature shouldn't be this quiet.

When Martin was finished readying himself he scanned the ground and his belongings looking for his gun.

'You shall not find it there, Martin.' The Sorcerer said absently.

Stephen smirked and sat upon the soft ground. 'Am I to presume that I shall never see my gun again? The gun that my father and his father before that fired in protection of the King? The gun that I thought had killed you?'

Samson shrugged and in a smooth motion drew the weapon from beneath his cloak.

'This old thing,' Samson said admiring the piece, 'Old as the hills but still as deadly as it was when it was made. You can trust me on that. You can have it back when we are done. I cannot deprive the man hunting me a fair chance now, can I?'

'So arrogant, Samson, that trait hasn't left you. Always arrogant and so cock sure of yourself.'

The two men locked eyes, both of them holding their gaze until finally Samson laughed. It was a different laugh, one that was unfamiliar to Martin. He didn't like it, didn't trust it.

Martin said 'If you are going to kill me then be done with it traitor. Or if not, then kill yourself and put an end to my burden.'

Samson shook his head and pointed to the little creatures shut tight in the glass jar. 'To kill you now would be foolish. Have I not just saved you from a certain painful death? No, I thought we might talk for a few moments. Thought I might show myself to you so that you know that I am real and not a figment of poor old Albert's mind.'

Now it was Martins turn to point and he raised his accusatory hand to the Sorcerer. 'He was twice the man you ever were. On my life I will see his name carved into your flesh.'

Samson once again chuckled to himself. 'Just words, Marksman. Words, bullets for that matter, can't hurt me now. Your hunt will lead you to nothing but your death and I shall go on doing my good work from town to town, place to place.

'I am going into that town down there, Martin as I have heard another one of the orbs lays dormant there. I mean to make it my own and show the Great King that I can do his bidding, that I am strong; strong enough so that he finally lets me kill you once and for all.'

Now it was Martins turn to laugh and he clapped his hands on his thighs as he did. 'He thinks you are weak, you fool. That's why you won't kill me. You haven't got it in you.'

Samson tried to interject but Martin waved his comments away and stood so that he towered over the cloaked man. 'You can't deny it. He thinks you aren't strong enough to kill me so he has told you to leave me alone. Samson Little, the great and powerful Black Sorcerer, a man who controls the stars themselves, can't be trusted to kill a simple Marksman like me. You still are a flaccid prick, Samson.'

Samson looked flustered and Martin could see the rage building inside of him. The Marksman braced himself for an attack. The air in the clearing grew stale.

Samson retort was calming; 'Martin, Martin, Martin. Such friends we were and now look at us. Fighting and squabbling like two school girls. You can fret all you want, fluster and bluster away till your hearts content and you believe all the stupid things you say, but believe me when I say that with a flick of my hand you would be as dead as those two little ones are over there.'

With that Samson flicked his wrist and Martin watched as the two fluttering fairies grabbed at their throats and sank to the bottom of the jar; dead.

'And when I kill, Marksman, you won't find the Angle of Death waiting for you, nor that pretty little cunt Palaluka to guide you on your way. Oh no, you will walk the Void as a blind old fool for the rest of eternity. You will have nothing and be at the whim of the great Demons that stalk down there.'

Martin thought about Death and the deal that he had made.

Samson's eyes widened and he stood; flicking his cloak so that the bitch Arda was visible. Both men were now upright, their chests out, arms by their side; both poised to attack.

'Your thoughts betray you Marksman,' Samson said, 'Made a pact with Death, hey? Well let me tell you, Varula is mine, not yours to give away to that scrawny fuck. I warn you, Marksman, don't fuck with me, and don't fuck with her!'

Before Martin could move and try to capture the Sorcerer, Samson had turned and fled like Martin had when he was being accused of murder. Looking down to where Samson had been standing, Martin could see his gun nestled in the long grass. He smiled, knowing that he had won a little battle between the two of them and that the Orb he was looking for was in the next town.

The air grew sweet and birdsong could once again be heard in the clearing. Martin, exhausted, collapsed to the floor and slept upon the soft earth.

12

Early the next day, the Marksman walked from the clearing and further away from the Wastelands; following the same trail that Samson walked not a few days previous. Once through the main bulk of the trees he gazed out over the town of Christian Sands. He didn't stay for long, the view wasn't one that enthralled him and he moved on sensing the presence of the Sorcerer wherever he went.

After a while he came across a fence that he had to detour around. Within the fenced off area he made out hundreds of bee hives painted bright white by a caring hand. The Marksman paid careful attention to the sign warning him of the dangers of the bees and he made no attempt to steal some of the honey the bees were busying themselves making. Martin stopped and admired the small hives and the hands that worked them. Back home in Ritash there was no place for such things and he felt sad about that.

He headed off toward the town not knowing what he would find there or how he was going to deal with the orb if he ever found it. He knew the orbs needed souls to keep them quiet, especially Varula; her hunger ran deep, and it would take more souls than the Marksman thought he could get to keep her quiet.

A nasty thought crossed his mind of the how he would have to get the souls and he quickly thought about how he would begin his search for the magical ball. The town was big, not the same size as Ritash, but when you aren't familiar with the geography even a small village can seem overwhelming. He also had the Sorcerer to deal with, which made the task even more troublesome as the Marksman knew that for every step he took to get closer to the orb the Sorcerer would make sure that the orb would remain two more away.

He took in a deep breath and sighed as he walked down from the forest and onto a cobbled road that wound its way through fields and into the very heart of Christian Sands. As he walked he loosened his gun belt letting the gun hang low on his thigh; a position not favoured by many but one that the Marksman felt more comfortable with than the standard high hold. Martin hoped that the gun would not have to be drawn.

Idiot.
Nightmares

1

It was way past supper when Dotty arrived home. Her meeting with the strange man had made her mind lose track of time and she had continued painting the bee hives carefree. When she was done for the day Dotty had stood there doing nothing for over two hours. When I say standing doing nothing I mean to say that her body was doing nothing her mind was racing. Racing quicker than it ever had and ever will do.

Dotty was a simpleton. Kind at heart like most simpletons and extremely strong willed. If she believed in something then she would always keep to it no matter what anybody, including her father, said. So when she got home way past supper and her father went mad at her she had what she thought was the perfect defence.

'You wanted the bee hives painted up before dark, so I made sure they was?'

Her father had stared at her, his eyes gleaming with the disappointment that he was once again about to be put right by his retarded daughter.

'Was I wrong to make sure's I finished the job?' To make it even worse for him she cocked her head like a questioning dog.

He had no choice but to drop the attitude and he told her to sit whilst he fetched up her supper.

She sat at the large table meant for at least six people with her elbows resting upon its tatty surface. Her home was large and as with the table it was meant for six plus people. A farm house bestowed with a happy feeling even though this family, Dotty and Ted (that's the dad's name) had been through a lot of bad times. Four deaths in as many years will leave a stain on a family that takes years of washing to get rid of.

Her hands were caked in white paint and her clothes stunk of the fumes but she minded not. She was happy to be home with her dad even though he was moody. Because dad doesn't stay moody too long, Dad wouldn't stay moody all night. By the time bedtime came he would be too tired to be moody and be happy just to read her a story and wish her good night.

Ted put the plate down on the table, the steaming potatoes and meat wafted up Dotty' nose and made her appetite jump up.

'Yummy yummy for my tummy!' Dotty sang to the plate.

'That's right, sweetie.' Ted said as he walked away back to the kitchen. He reached the doorway and Dotty knew he was stood there looking at her whilst she ate.

She was halfway through the meal when her dad asked how many more hives she had left to paint.

'Bout thirty, maybe more. Hard to say, haven't been count'n em.' Her dad sniggered and she did too but Dotty didn't know why, she just did it because she knew it made her dad feel good.

'Ok. That's good.' Her dad said with a deep sigh and almost regrettably said, 'I need you to go Mr Thatcham's house soon. You know Mr Thatcham's house, Dotty? The one with the picket fence you like?'

Dotty didn't look up from her plate. 'Yeah, I knows it.'

'Good,' her dad continued, 'because that picket fence needs a painting and he has asked for you especially.' Ted let the words sink in for a minute. 'Aint that a neat trick?'

Dotty was silent for a moment as she weighed things up. How she loved being in the woods painting the bee's homes. It was warm, quiet and she could sing all the day long without being laughed at. Plus there was no one there who looked at her funny as she didn't like that. No sir. Didn't like it one itsy bitsy.

'Don't like Old Man Thatcham. He laughs at me when I goes to his shop with the pigs.'

Ted scratched at his forehead and looked down to the wooden floor. 'That was a long time ago, Dotty. He has seen that you are a good painter and he would like it if you painted his fence for him. I promise that he won't laugh at you. He has grown to like you now.'

There was silence in the dining room for a while as Dotty finished off the meal. The plate was near enough clean when she let out a large burp. Laughing, she quickly covered her mouth and looked to her dad.

'Oops. Sorry Dad.' Dotty sniggered quietly but she did she looked blankly at the fireplace across from her.

Ted walked over and picked the plate up off of the table. He stood by his daughter and put a rough hand on her muscular shoulder.

'Look, if you go there and paint his fence it means a lot to yer old dad and if he does laugh at you, well, you just come a running back to me and I will deal with Old Man Thatcham.' Ted looked down at Dotty who returned the gesture by looking up at him. 'How does that sound, Little Dotty?'

Dotty took in a massive breath. Her moon sized eyes gazed deep into her Dad. How she loved him and would always love him because what Dad said he meant. What dad promises he delivers. Dad is always there. Will always be there. When the monsters come at night and try and bite her toes; Dad is there. When the rain clouds come and the thunder smashes overhead Dad is there to sing it all away. When she feels ill and her head aches the way it does when people laugh and throw things at her Dad is there to make her laugh and to rub her forehead and make the pain go away. If the entire world was to disappear and all that was left was her and her Dad then Dotty would be the happiest Little Dotty in all of the world.

The young woman nodded. 'Ok, Dad. I'll do it.'

Ted smiled and planted a massive kiss on Dotty' forehead making her giggle.

'Now get on upstairs and get out of those dirty work clothes before pudding.'

2

With no sons to help on the land the farm was falling apart. That was the simple truth of it. Ted could work himself to the bone, and he was for all intense and purposes, but it still did no good. Dotty was there to help but she was a simple as the day is long and her mind couldn't understand how important some tasks are. It isn't her fault; it's just the way it is. Thank god she can paint.

Ted sat in his chair gazing into the fireplace, watching the flames take hold of another piece of wood. He has lost his three sons and wife in the last four years, the last being his eldest son Dorian and now it was all coming to an end. It would have ended last year if it wasn't for the kindness of the townsfolk, especially Mr. Thatcham. They had given up their own time to help harvest and to lay down crops. Tending to the crops was an easy job, Ted could do that on by himself but seeing to the animals, well that was a job that needed constant attention. Attention that his two eldest boys were mighty keen on giving. He sighed deeply. How his father would look in disgust at what was happening to the farm. But what was Ted to do? Three sons dead. Two in a fire, one during childbirth taking his poor mother with him. Their mother, his wife.

Louise.

She had been a good wife. Caring, supportive and always had the right answer to a question be it to do with the kids, local farmers or the running of their own farm, she was there. But not anymore. Ted was, give or take, on his own for the first time in twenty years. When Louise had been here he felt safe, secure, wanted. Yeah, that's the right word for it; wanted. All men need to feel that they were needed and Louise certainly did that.

But now she wasn't here and she had left Ted with nothing but a slow daughter and a farm gone to the dogs. He didn't begrudge her that but was he the slightest bit jealous...

Selling up was the only option left. And that's where Mr. Thatcham came in. He was the local butcher and had fingers in many other pies. His money ran deeper than the mines on the far side of town and he was the key to getting out of this. Ted would still run the farm, have extra hands to boot, but all the profits would go to Mr. Thatcham and Ted would get a weekly wage like the rest of em. Ted would have a bit of money from the sale of the farm but not much. Debts ran high, money owed to cattle feed companies, vets, council, farming groups you name them Ted owed them.

Dotty was totally unaware of all this and even if she were to know there was little chance she could understand it. As far as Ted was concerned it would stay that way. Yeah she was simple but he loved her. She was her own person and he could see a lot of himself in her. The way she muddled through, the way she got an idea and stuck with it no matter what was thrown at her. There is a lot to be said for someone that can go on no matter what the Fates throw in their faces. Painting the fence for Mike was just the start of it. It was a small gesture to get the ball rolling and to keep the price higher on the farm than Mr Thatcham would like. There was no charge for Dotty. There never would be. How could you charge money? Louise would have said that Dotty was being taken advantage of, but what else could Ted do? He was stuck between a rock and a fucking money rich bastard, hell bent on owning this place ever since Ted had discussed it with him six months prior. Check Mate sucker. Not to sell meant the end of everything. To sell wasn't ideal, believe me, but life doesn't always deal you a good hand. Sometimes you have to throw your hand in and pray for a better one next time round.

Ted was just about to get up and do the final check of the animal barns when he heard screaming coming from Dotty' bedroom.

He ran up the stairs two at a time and turned to the first door on left when he reached the hallway. In the dark gloom he could make out Dotty sat upright in bed; the bed sheets wrapped around herself tightly. Tears shone in the moonlight and her screams where turning into sobs.

He began talking before he got to her telling her it would be alright, that there was nothing to fear now that dad was here. Telling her it was all a dream and that dreams can't hurt her. She felt heavy in his arms which wasn't unkind it was another one of those truths. How he would love to lift her up and hold her tight in his arms and sway her back to sleep but it was impossible. His Little Dotty stood taller than he and she weighed sixteen stone give or take.

Her sobs were massive and her breath caught on each one as he cuddled her. Her arms gripped him tight and her chest heaved in and out, in and out, like a pump struggling to gather air. Her hair clung to her wet face in long strands and Ted wiped them away. She looked like she was six again; so helpless, so fragile. Times back, when Ted was new to being a single Dad, he wished she would go away, far away so that he didn't have to deal with this. He was scared now to think back to those thoughts, to the conversation he had had with Doyle Cartwright. By the old kings that felt like a lifetime ago. He took another deep breath and started to pat her back matching his breaths with hers and then slowing his down to see if she would copy and like the times before; it worked.

Ted continued to calm her but for a while it seemed to do no good then all of a sudden her breathing eased and she released the tight grip she had and Ted let her fall slowly back into bed; her head resting softly on the white pillow and her hair moved away by her shaking right hand.

Ted knew that he had to wait for her to come around before he pushed her to find out what her dream was about. He had learned quickly after Louise had died that Dotty would think before speaking; a trait he admired.

'What was it Dotty? Can you tell me?'

Dotty was quiet for a moment her eyes looking out of the window. The sobs would pipe up now and then but she had calmed down enough to realise it was all a dream.

'There were hundreds of butterflies in the Butcher Shop, Dad, hundreds upon hundreds of em.'

Ted shook his head. 'That doesn't sound horrible. You love to flutter with the butterflies, my angel.'

Dotty rubbed at her soar, wet eyes and looked her Dad with nothing but dread upon her face. 'They were all dead. Dead like Mom. Dead like Ernie, Graham and little Clay. The room was all red, a scary red and the Butcher man was laughing at me because I wanted to save the butterflies.' She had never looked so fearful of anything before and Ted was scared for her and in a way; scared for himself.

'But I couldn't save them, Dad, I couldn't save them!' Dotty began to cry again.

Ted was speechless. He didn't know what to do so he did nothing. He just sat on the edge of the bed and let his daughter cry herself back to sleep and when she was finally gone he lifted himself up and continued on with his chores more tired than he had felt in a long time and thinking about the dream and what it could mean.

Dotty slept soundly throughout the rest of the night. She dreamed still but these were good dreams. She could see her Mum walking along a path. A forest path; a bright green, a happy green. She was smiling and waving as she walked along it without a care in the world, her hands brushing against the dandelions and the hocks and the sunflowers and all the while she was singing. It was a song that Dotty had never heard before but from now on, when she was alone or when she missed her mum Dotty would sing it and sing it with the same smile on her face:

3

At roughly the same time that Dotty was having her nightmare Mike Thatcham was awake and in a rather private meeting. In the town hall, behind the main hall, was a room meant for big time conferences and meetings of the town counsellors and business men. It could seat around forty but tonight it seated just three: head of the mines to the north; Doyle Cartwright, chief librarian Daisy Hicks and local business man and entrepreneur Mr Mike Thatcham. The room was dark apart from a few lanterns lit at the far end of the room. There were electric lights but the power couldn't be trusted. The room was warmer than it should have been this time so the fire place was unlit. The three persons were at the far end, bathed in the soft glow of the few lit lanterns and they were huddled over a large wooden box, each one gawking at it like it was a diamond reflecting in it the very reason for existence.

Talking between them had ceased for a moment as they each individually interpreted the information all three had divulged a mere ten minutes ago.

Finally Mike pulled himself up straight and gently clapped his hands together.

'And no one knows we have this? Am I right, Mr Cartwright?' Mike looked to the man stood on his right and waited a response. When it wasn't quick in coming Mike urged him again.

'Doyle. We are the only ones that know of this, yes?'

The miner scratched his chin and had to physically remove his gaze from the box. But he didn't look Mike in the eyes; he just kept staring into the darkness of the room.

'Urmm... yeah, Mr Thatcham. Just me, you and Miss Daisy. No one else saw it. If they did then they will be silenced.'

Mike nodded in acknowledgment. He liked Doyle. Much like himself, a much younger himself, but none the less; he had the guts to get things done even if they were a little messy. Good at finding loop holes and ways around things, was Mr Cartwright, and all in the name of making money.

'And that is how it shall stay. For the time being at least. Not until we know what it is and what we can do with it.' Mike leaned back over toward the box but he was stopped getting too close by the hand of Miss Hicks.

'I think we should remove ourselves from its presence for the time being. I can feel her trying to reach out even though she's locked in the box.' Daisy's' voice was low as if she didn't want whatever it was in the box to overhear her words.

Mike looked over to her, his eyes full of questions.

'Trust me, Mike.' Daisy continued nodding over to the man on her far right, 'you too, Doyle. We must be careful.'

Daisy wasn't in Mikes good books but she was needed in the long run. The brains of the bunch were our young Miss Hicks. Barely twenty and already knee deep in all types of fakery that will one day see her rich beyond her wildest dreams. But for the time being she was Mikes little helper. A pretty face that wows the buyers and ups the money no matter what the situation and as Mike is always keen to tell Doyle 'if a man thinks he can get a sniff of a pussy or the squeeze of a titty then it drives the sale home' Daisy sure could get the buyers buying at high prices and the sellers selling at a low one.

Doyle stepped back and shook his head. Daisy followed suite, followed shortly after by Mike. The three of them turned their backs upon the wooden box and talked amongst themselves. A conversation that's not for our ears.

We should be more interested in the wooden box, don't you think? This box that is as old as the mountains and made of ironwood so hard it could survive the toughest of blows. It looked the part, dark and foreboding and as wretched as the souls that have found it. When they found the box it had been buried deep, deep enough to keep it quiet and to keep it safe. But not all things like to be kept quiet, not all things want us kept safe. On the lid of the box carved deep into the dark wood is a single letter and later on, in the deepest part of the night, when the box is back at the home of Mr Mike Thatcham he will etch his finger along the groves of that letter until his skin breaks, bleeds and the blood flows around that markings.

In blood, the letter V will glisten in the candlelight and the Fate of a few hangs in the balance.

4

The next morning Mike woke up with a start. He couldn't remember what he had been dreaming of but whatever it was it awakened him with a fright. His eyes blinked slowly as he stared up at the ceiling. His body was wet with sweat, the sheets thrown off him during some fit in the night. Mikes heart was going ten to the dozen and he struggled to calm himself.

He closed his eyes and tried to remember what the dream had been about but could think of nothing. His body wouldn't relax back to sleep so he laid there with his eyes shut, the sun blocked by heavy black curtains, the room in darkness for some time, until he sighed heavy and opened his eyes meaning to get up out of bed.

But he couldn't move. As much as he wanted to he couldn't move. He tried to move his legs, but nothing. His arms were as heavy as lead and his head was like an iron encased in rock. His calmed heart pulsed frantically and his breaths became shallow and quick.

It was then that Mike felt the air grow stale, stinking of old mules and dung. The curtains were moving to and fro in a breeze that was not caused by the wind. He tried to move again, with a force that would have sprang him from the bed but this time only served to tire him further and cause his heart to do jumps in his chest.

His eyes darted from left to right but he could see very little. He was alone in his bed as always and there was no one to help him.

Scream! Shout you bloody fool! His mind instructed but he could not. Trapped in his bed Mike's nervous system frantically tried to move his body but it could do nothing.

'Feeling tied down, Mike?' A voice asked.

Mike tried to look over to see who was speaking; the voice sounding like it came from the foot of his bed.

The voice laughed. 'No good in trying, Mike. You are stuck there and that is how it shall be until I am finished.'

Mikes eyes darted furiously as he struggled to look at whoever it was at the end of his bed. He briefly thought of the box downstairs.

'Do not think too much of her, Mike. She will destroy you quicker than I ever could.'

Mike felt a hand reach down and touch is bare foot. Cold fingers caressed it and they sent shivers down his spine. The thought of what those hands might do made his belly twist and he felt sick.

'Calm down, Mike. No harm shall come to you today. I am here with a brief message.'

Mike breathed in hard, sharp breaths the hand caressing his foot tightened as it reached his fat ankle.

'Do not fuck with her, Mike. Do not fuck with her. She is not meant for you she is meant for me. Give her what she wants and nothing else. I will be back soon to get her.'

Within a heartbeat both of Mike's ankles were grasped and squeezed tight. Mikes brain filled with images of fire, dead bodies, twisted faces of pain, screams of children and blood. He was sure that the sick would rise up and spray the room. He swallowed hard to control it.

'If I find that you have not done as she has asked, if I find that you have tried to run off with her, if I find that you have fucked with me, Mike, like you fucked with your wife, like you fucked with everybody, Mike, I will find you and I will............' in the briefest of moments Mike saw himself hanging from a tree, crows ripping his eyeballs out. Then the image was gone.

Mike moved his feet away quick and jumped out of bed tripping over his slippers and careening into his bed side chest. He stumbled for a moment his eyes scanning the room.

Nobody was there. The room was cool, smelling of sleep and sweat. The curtains were not swaying and looking around again the room was as it has always been since Mike had killed his wife some ten years previous; empty apart from him. His heart raced and he struggled to regain balance. Holding onto his chest he tried to tap his heart back in to line.

5

Daisy Hicks wakes at five every morning. She makes a coffee, dresses then walks her dog Marley before returning home to wash the night before dishes and to ready herself for work. If it was a Saturday or Sunday then she would go to her garden to tend to her flowers or she would read or visit the shops. Today was a Thursday; a working day. But at seven thirty when she should be readying herself for work at the library she was sat in her dining room; her body stuck fast to the chair, the sun's rays beaming through the window and into her eyes causing them to water.

She was disabled and blind.

Her breaths were deep and slow the opposite of Mikes not ten minutes ago. She was terrified but in a calm manner. Her mother had had fits like this before her death. She would seize up and be unable to move, unable to speak, unable to see and this could last for up to three or four hours. At first it was terrifying for both of them but after months had passed it became easier to deal with. Daisy herself had had two of the attacks in the last year or so but today's attack had come with such ferocity that she was starting to get frightened.

Her eyes looked quickly left and right but all they could see was whiteness. Her eyes were stinging with it. The sun was strong today and the glass in her window only made it worse. She couldn't call anyone for help.

'I was disappointed that you didn't freak out as much as Old Man Thatcham.'

The voice was flat, monotone, and almost meaningless. Daisy held her breath sharply and looked straight ahead to where the voice came from. Whoever was there was hidden in the whiteout of the suns glare.

'But your mother prepared you for this, I suppose. I understand you don't like it, that it reminds you of her and for that I shall get straight to the point.'

Daisy heard shuffling. She breathed in hard; the air in her house changing from spring flowers to the scent of horse dung.

'You were shown something last night. A something that you know all too well.'

Daisy thought about the wooden box and what she knew it contained.

'Don't think too much of her, Daisy. She is dangerous and you should let Mike do what he has to do and you will do what you have to do. What she wants you to do.'

The man shuffled again. Daisy tried to keep calm but it was getting harder now. She was completely defenceless, open to anything and she had no chance to stop her thoughts going back to that summer's night by the river when the two men had...

'Don't you worry about that, Daisy. You need to forget about that and worry about the next few days.'

Daisy began to cry and her breathing was getting out of control. There was silence in the room as her breathing got shallower, faster and faster until she was sure her very heart would explode. She was hoping that the man had left, that he wasn't going to hurt her, that she could try and get out of this when what felt like a finger touched her between her legs. It was no good looking at what was doing it as her eyes were shut tight.

'If I find that you haven't listened to Mike. If I find that you haven't listened to her. If I find that you haven't listened to me, Daisy, I will hurt you...'

As the finger moved away the young girl slipped from the chair and screamed until her breath was gone.

Marley sat in the doorway too scared to go to his master.

6

The mines of Christian Sands ran deep. Men toiled in them twenty four hours a day, seven days a week with the only rest bite coming at End Year and Reap Day. Smoke billowed from lofty chimneys and the clanging of machinery rang out across the city and fields. Christian Sands is in the heartland of the Lower Lands, a place where commerce and industrial powers still rule and a far cry from the dead holes that are the outlying desert towns such as Little Pond, Princeton, Juniper, and Rockfall. Those places were rotten to the core and soon would be desolate waste grounds awaiting the deserts clawing hand to tear them apart.

And it was in one of these towns, Rockfall judging by the name of the tavern which he had once frequented, that Doyle Cartwright found himself in. Or should I say; that it was Doyle's dream that put him there.

He was stood out front of the tavern, its sign swaying in the hot wind. Doyle gazed at it through half closed eyes trying to mask out the suns intense glare. His eyes were drawn to a figure stood at one of the windows on the top floor but he couldn't make out what he was doing only that a faint wisp of smoke was coming from something sat upon the windowsill. Somehow Doyle knew that that man was being watched. He was being watched.

The next thing he knew he was stood in the centre of town next to the water well and all around him were bodies of men and women and children; all of them were dead; blown apart by some monstrous weapon of destruction. His eyes scanned them like spoil from his own mine and his dream let him care little for them.

A shadow befell him now, releasing Doyle briefly from the suns radiance. He looked up and saw a man dressed in blue denim and a brown shirt. In a bag slung across his shoulder a black shawl peeped out. His face was hard, eyes as wide as a moon and God like. The man was smiling and Doyle found himself smiling back.

'Good morning, Doyle.' The man said without moving his lips and Doyle nodded back.

'Welcome to Rockfall. Welcome to the future.' Waving his right hand, the man in the brown shirt pointed behind him, there was a man scurrying from the town, blood dripping from his shoes, a gun in his hand that seemed too large to be real. Following the man with the large gun's path back he saw a woman holding her large protruding belly and heard her sobs and felt her sorrow.

'Which one.' Doyle asked.

The man in the brown shirt put his hand in his jean pocket. 'Neither. Both. All three. I don't know. For you there is only the knowledge that one day these will become your future.'

Doyle nodded. The smiles remained on each other's faces.

'Who are they?' Doyle looked over to the man running from Rockfall and to the woman then back to the man in the brown shirt. 'Who are you?'

'He is Stephen. The girl is Susie and the lump is yet to be named.'

The hot wind rushed between them blowing dreambush between their legs. The clothes on the dead bodies rustled life back into the corpses if only for a moment.

'I am known by many names and will be known soon by only one. Know now that I am only here to warn you, Doyle.'

Doyle's eyes widened but he kept on smiling.

The man in the brown shirt went on. 'You have found something that should not be trifled with, Doyle. Do as she wants, do as Mike wants and all will be alright. Don't do as they want and fuck with me Mike, all won't be alright. I have no idea how quick I will come for it, it may be Tomorrow, it may be next week.'

With that the sky turned grey and clouds rolled in. Thunder rippled across the desert and Mike found himself in the Wastelands. It was hot and he was alone, the man in the brown shirt was gone. Rockfall was gone. That man, the pregnant woman, all were gone. Thunder roared above and the ground shook and kept on shaking causing Doyle to fall upon the hardpan. It was then that the beast of the desert, the demon that lived deep within its heart and feasted upon the weary lost traveller rose from the sand and consumed the helpless miner. Doyle didn't even have a chance to scream.

Doyle awoke, a muffled scream in his throat, and found himself lying in his own backyard the sun in his face his body wet with sweat. Swallowing, he coughed hoarsely. Rolling onto his belly and retching hard he vomited up a bucket load of hot sand which piled up on the grass like sand dunes in the Wasteland; in its grain Doyle could make out the face of the Demon which had consumed him.

7

Dotty had left early on that Thursday morning and Ted awoke after sleeping in a little to a quiet house. In the kitchen he found some jam on bread and a mug of coffee that Dotty had made for him. The coffee wasn't cold so he drank it down and consumed the jam on bread greedily.

By half past eight Ted was in his fields tending to the animals. His farm was on the east side of the river and the first set of buildings you come to on the great road from Ritash and the surrounding towns and villages. But being the first doesn't mean the best and these lands were hard to grow on. Crops continually failed and irrigation was a key problem. The furthest field was perpetually dry and the nearest to the forest would flood in bad weather. Being a farmer was hard work, Ted knew this, was brought up with that persistently being told to him by his father, but Teds farm had pushed him over the limit. No crop was a guarantee. No livestock certain to reap a good profit.

But soon that wouldn't be his problem. That problem would have been brought by Mike Thatcham. This afternoon, once the cows had been fed he would go into town and let Thatcham know of his intent to sell and that Dotty would paint the picket fence, paint the whole god damned house if he wanted too.

The sun was strong this morning and Ted's sweat was already pouring as he walked the fields ensuring all was nice and tight. He scratched the back of his head before bending down and picking up another loose rock in the baron third field. All would be nice and tidy for when Thatcham came to visit and see the land that was for sale. No loose rocks, no weeds, no dirty machinery, no unhealthy animals.

Ted scratched again at the irritation on the back of his neck and swiped away anything that may have been there.

'You can't get rid of me that easy.' A woman's voice said behind Ted and he jumped and turned dropping the rock to the floor.

No one was there; just the view of the river and the bridge and the city ahead was all he could see. Shaking his head he reached down and picked up the rock and placed it in the back of his cart with the other dozen or so. The itch flared up again and he scratched at it hard.

'I've got an itch you can scratch, Ted.' The woman seductively said.

This time Ted turned but as he did he grabbed hold of a rock and held it up as if to strike whoever it was that was there.

But as before; he was alone. Only this time he looked out over the fields and in the distance the forest bended into the horizon. Ted held the rock as he looked about. The sweat on his brown was threatening to run into his eyes and he wiped at it with his free arm.

He lowered the arm holding the rock so that it rested against his thigh; then with the irritation returning he scratched the back of his neck and returned to the job in hand.

8

The voice was silent for the rest of the morning and, as planned, by one o'clock Ted was riding slowly into town toward the butchers that Thatcham owned.

He past the farms of Lawrence Gish and Varsity Williams as he rode in. Both farms were productive and profit friendly with both men securing the best machinery, the best labour and the best feed. Ted used to be extremely jealous of these men but those days had past. All he was jealous of now was the families that those men had. Families that Ted would never have again.

Moving past the farms the road swept through various storage buildings and factories and then crossed the River Strain over a massive wooden bridge constructed many years by the first settlers here. The river was wide, just over a mile at its widest and deep; so deep that the water black in places. The bridge spanned the river at one of its narrowest points and the settlements had grown around it. The river ran for miles and miles to the north were five rivers joined and flowed west all the way to the Great Sea.

His horse trotted its way across and he waved at the passers-by on the side of the bridge as they ventured out of town. The river flowed fast under the bridge its course unyielding. The water was green not the rich shade of blue he remembered back when he was a boy. The tips of the waves peaked white as the water rushed past the wooden struts holding the bridge up.

When he was a boy he had dreamed of sailing the Strain. Going from the mountains in the east all the way to the Great Sea and the white beaches that lay there, but his father had never allowed it. Told him to put away such boyish dreams and to concentrate on the job in hand; on the here and now and on the farm.

'Boats are for fisherman, not farmers, son.' Ted said to the river thinking back to his father's simple but logical words.

On the other side of the river the road junctions and goes here, there and everywhere. The Great Road leads on through town and off into unknown parts. The other lanes go to the various districts of Christian Sands. Ted heads left which is the business district and the heart of the city.

It doesn't take long for him to reach the main commercial road and Ted stops at one of the many stables. The building can house up to fifty horses but today there are only a handful inside so Ted finds the cleanest and ties his horse up making sure there is enough fed and water to keep him going for the next couple of hours.

Ted trundled down what was called Main Street and his gaze didn't drift to the windows nor the stalls that passed him by. He noted some of his friends as they walked by but he was in no mood to chat nor did he have the time. He simply nodded and walked on. His work clothes were scruffy and his hair a mess of tangles. He would have liked to have been more suitably dressed to meet Thatcham but it just wasn't to be and most of his nice clothes were either damaged, being used as dish cloths or just plain too small.

He reached Thatcham's Butchers slightly out of breath. Looking through the window he could see two men working; neither of them Thatcham.

He opened the door, the bell attached to the top ringing as he did. The smell of dead meat was all around. The floor was covered in saw dust and the tables festooned with cuts of meat for the paying customer. As it was Ted was the only person apart from the two workers on the shop floor.

'Good afternoon, Sir.' One of the workers said. 'What can I do for you today? We have fine steaks; four for a copper coin.'

Ted looked at the steaks on the table. His stomach crumbled as he thought of frying them up with some fresh spuds. He smiled at the thought.

'Sounds good.' Ted looked back to the butcher. 'But not today. I am here to see Mr Thatcham. He isn't expecting me but if you let him know that Ted Night is here; I am sure he will see me.'

The butcher nodded and in his eyes Ted could see he was no message boy. But, none the less, the man walked out back and into the storage area where Thatcham keeps his office.

Two minutes later the man returned and ushered Ted to the back.

'Mr Thatcham is in his office. He will see you now.'

Ted nodded at the man as he walked by. The man stunk of sweat, meat and beer.

'Second door on the left.' The man said as Ted entered the dark, smelly store room and when he knocked on the second door he wasn't surprised when he was asked to come in by Old Man Thatcham.

Ted opened the door and walked into Thatcham's office. It was well lit by electric light and the walls ordained with pictures of great landscapes, machinery and animals. Books were housed in cabinets and files rested upon files stacked high from floor to ceiling. Mike sat behind a rather too large table and sat at a rather too large chair. On his desk where various papers, pens, notes and a new looking map of the local area. With a quick glance Ted knew his farm was circled in blue ink.

'Good afternoon, Ted.' Mike said as he nodded to Ted and ushered him to sit at the only other chair in the room. 'Could I get you a drink, or something to eat maybe?'

Ted sat on the old creaky chair. 'No thank you, Mr Thatcham, I fine.'

Mike nodded and his eyes looked at the tatty farmer. 'Please, Ted, call me Mike.'

There was silence for a moment as Mike gathered together his papers and folded the map placing it under the wooden desk in an unseen drawer.

Ted could feel the weight of the room pressing down on him. There was something about this office that seemed unnerving, he couldn't say what it was or describe it when he thought of it but there was something in the office that put weight upon a man's shoulders and made him crack with the pressure.

Mike broke the silence and Ted was grateful for it. 'So, Ted, have you come to an answer on my proposition?'

Mike was a large man. Not fat but getting there. As always Mike was wearing nice tailored trousers with a crisp blue shirt unbuttoned at the collar. He had a full head of hair which had turned grey only recently. He stood tall and was once a giant of a man. His face was very round, with a chunky nose, set chin and wide eyes which seemed to shine in the electric light. You almost feared for your safety when giving Mike an answer you knew he wouldn't like.

'Yeah, Mike. I have made my mind up.'

Another short silence. Mikes eyebrows were raised.

'Well?'

Ted sighed. 'I will sell you the farm, all in, nothing left.'

Mike clapped his hands together and a smile beamed from ear to ear. 'Excellent. Excellent. I won't see you poor Ted me boy, but what with the state of the cattle price these days and the cost of land depreciating by the second you must know I can't give you top price neither.' Mikes eyes were firmly upon Teds; trying to read the situation.

Ted felt the pressure squeezing him and he wished he had said yes to that drink.

'The price is still one hundred and fifty thousand gold coin. No more, no less.'

Mike held his stubble chin in his right hand and breathed heavily as he thought it over. Ted had to seal the deal.

'Come on, Mike. You know it's worth it. Don't make me beg,' Ted stood up and paced back and forward, 'One hundred and fifty thousand is a good price considering you are getting a farmhouse, four farm buildings, six dozens chickens, forty pigs plus pens, four hundred head of cattle, one hundred in sheep, eight horses one of which is a prize stallion still producing and three thousand acres of land not to mention the bees plus me and all my equipment, my know how and land it sits on.'

Ted stopped, leant over and put both hands on the chair. Pity was in his eyes.

Mike leant back in his grand chair; thoughts of what happened that morning far from his mind.

'I thought we discussed a figure much less than that not one month ago?'

'We did, but that was before I had time to think about it. Time to weigh up what I had and what the farm can do for you. What we discussed before was a poor evaluation. I, as you Mike, had enough beer to fell a beast that night. It wasn't an ideal situation to discuss such things.'

Mike nodded but kept his gaze on the farmer.

'Let me think about it, Ted.' Mike stood and offered is hand, 'Two days.' It wasn't a question.

Ted took the offered hand and shook it. 'Okay, Mike, two days. One hundred and fifty thousand gold coin.'

Releasing their handshake Mike sat back down and Ted stood up straight. The room felt less intrusive now, the pressure was relenting a little and Ted was happier for it. It felt like a massive weight had been removed now that the offer was on the table and with one hundred and fifty thousand gold coins in the bag his worries would soon be over.

Then Ted remembered young Dotty.

'Dotty will paint your fence and anything else you need doing. Just name the day and she will be there.'

Mike smiled. 'Good, good. Send her over Tomorrow if you like. Say eight o'clock?'

'Eight is fine. Just make sure the paint is there and don't mention anything about the sale to her; you know how Dotty...' Ted looked to the floor in shame. 'well, you know how Dotty can be.'

9

Yeah, Mike knew how Dotty could be, knew all too well how stupid Dotty could be. Twenty minutes after their meeting had finished and Ted was well on his way back to his farm Mike couldn't stop thinking about how much of a great man he was and how stupid Ted was being. Stupid like his daughter. Stupid like everyone.

Everyone except for him.

Even his own wife had been stupid, but not anymore. She was long dead and that was good. Life with her still around didn't bear thinking about. She had tried to foil Mike, tried to get him to buy things at their proper value, tried to make him sell things he didn't want and tried to make him treat people with respect. But he was way too clever for that and a suicide was the best way for her to go. A very sad suicide with an even sadder suicide note just for good measure.

Ted was another stupid one. Maybe not like all the others as he was more unlucky and foolish than plain old stupid but it all came to the same thing in the end. You make your own luck in this world. Ted was right about the money. It was worth one hundred and fifty thousand. As a matter of fact, looking at the price of land, and of cattle and of machinery it was worth a whole lot more. A lot more like about another one hundred thousand more. Probably even more with the discovery.

Mike laughed as he reached down and unrolled the map he had been looking over before Ted's arrival. On it he had marked the farm, plus (unseen by Ted's eyes) new roads that would be laid, new buildings that would be built and new factories that would churn out wares to sell to all the major towns and cities from here to the furthest reaches. Mike would be richer than he had ever dreamed of once this farm was bought and the land that it was on was used correctly.

Doyle Cartwright had shown him the sample from the dig he had done on Teds land and that sample was sat on a shelf behind Mike; its black gloopy mess screwed up tightly in a glass jar.

Mike reached up and took hold of the glass jar. 'Two days to think about it, Ha!'

He looked into the black mess and swirled it around.

'Black gold.' Mike whispered.

10

That night Mike, Daisy and Doyle lay in their separate beds dreaming. Varula had sniffed an opportunity and she was slowing taking advantage of it. All three dreamed of the Orb. They would not remember the dream for it is locked away at the back of the mind where tricks are played and memories robbed. The dreams are dark; filled with chaos and torment. None of them know what Varula is doing; none of them know that she can see all that they know and all that they want. She is conniving in her work and the three helpless souls toss and turn in the night trying in vain to stop the rot.

Dotty also dreams of the Orb but her dream is filled with lush forest and deep blue streams. She is happy with the friend she makes in the forest; happy to play with her and to swim naked with her. Her new friend has no name but this doesn't matter to Dotty who is rubbish with names anyway. When she runs it feels as though the two of them could fly, when they swim they feel like the fish that they chase. It is a happy dream, a good dream and when Dotty' mother appears and flies above them like a beautiful butterfly Dotty reaches up to touch the sky and feels the warmth on her hands and the flutter of tiny wings upon her fingers.

Back in the home of Thatcham, locked away in the drawer in his study, Varula pulses deeply in her wooden box.

11

The next day was hot and sunny. Spring, summer and autumn now rolled into one haphazard season with only winter bringing any real change to the climate. Sat on the porch seat smoking a cigarette basking in the morning heat Simon, son of Mike Thatcham, contemplated the days Tommy foolery he would be having.

He was given the day off work today to watch the simple girl Dotty paint the picket fence and make sure she did it a) correctly and b) without making a scene. 'Making a scene' his father had said with eyes that glistened in the sunlight and told the young man that if she were to fuck up then it was his problem and young Simon would be dealt with accordingly.

It was nearing eight o'clock and Dippy Dotty would be here soon. He would taunt that stupid cow something rotten today; maybe even getting her to take her top off or flash him her lady bits.

Dotty was thick as pig crap and like his dad, Simon hated the retarded. He was clever, 'street smart' as his father says. Able to judge a situation and deal with it before it gets out of hand. Take the death of his mother for instance; Simon knew it wasn't a suicide but rather than go to the local authorities and raise a concern he could see that she was nothing but a nuisance to this family. Best for her to go that way than for the family to be left with nothing but an empty bank account and debt. This family was important to the city; essential even, because they supplied most of the work, most of the feed, most of the homes, most of the dwellings most of fucking everything at the end of the day. Christ, if they were to up sticks and go this town would be fucked. So that is why his mother had to go and Simon was happy that his father had made a point of telling everyone how strong Simon was being, how supportive in these tough times, how so much like his father he was and that one day the city would have a new, even better businessman. Oh yes, how Simon was happy with that.

He took a deep drag of the cigarette; his blue eyes closing as he lingered on the hot sourness in his mouth. Simon kept his eyes closed as he remembered the girl he had dreamt about last night. She had been tall, red haired with a body to die for; firm backside, narrow hips and ample titties. The dream had seemed to go on all night, tiring him even when he was awake after a good ten hours sleep. He'd had a hard cock when he woke and he could feel it coming back. She had done whatever he had asked for last night. But who the fuck was she? Simon had never seen her before and he really wanted to meet her if she was real.

If he only knew her name then he would seek her out. He was good at finding people. Especially those that didn't want to be found. Devious to the last and Simon had a way of seemingly being you're friend as he destroyed everything around you and at the end still left you felling like 'Hey, that Simon is an alright kid and 'hey, even though he has scammed me out of my parents will; I will buy him a beer down the local.'

Opening his eyes he looked to his right. Dotty should be here any moment. He pictured her in his mind's eye and laughed at the stupidity of her body. She was built like a man. Built for heaving equipment across vast distances, but in the end only good for painting and fucking about with.

Be careful with that one Simon.

They young man squinted as he tried to pick out whose voice that had been. It was female, sort of like his mothers, but much more seductive in tone. He took another drag, stood and dropped the butt to the floor stamping on it as he walked down the flight of stairs from his porch and out onto the front yard.

Don't ignore me Simon. I won't come again if you do.

Simon stood stock still and looked down at his feet. He recognised the voice.

'Sorry. I won't ignore you.' He said to the floor.

He didn't see Dotty turn the corner.

Now listen to me Simon and listen well. Leave the girl alone. Mess with her and that's it between us. Leave her alone and...'

The voice tailed off and Simon felt a hand grip his balls and start rubbing them. He breathed deep as his cock began to grow.

'Good morning, Simon.' Dotty yelled from halfway down the road.

The young man sighed as the hand removed itself from his pants and when he looked up he wasn't surprised to see Dotty trudging down the road waving her hand like a complete fucking idiot; paint tins clanging together like an out of tune church bell.

12

It didn't take long for Simon to explain to Dotty what was needed to be done. The fence needed, cleaning, sanding and painting; the paint was in the shed it was white and don't make a mess. That's it. When it came to everyday tasks Dotty was a stupid as the day is long but when it came to painting she was smart. Quick to understand and quick to deliver and today she would work unhindered. Whatever it was that had come to him earlier on, he sure was preoccupied with. Simon lay in the front yard his face turned to the sun for the rest of the day thinking about the woman that seemed to fulfil his desires without a second thought.

13

Dotty was pleased Simon was distant today. She had been in such a good mood after the great dream she had had last night that she at first thought Simon was going to be a little sod and play her up. But that didn't look like it was going to happen. Simon looked as though he was sleeping; so Dotty got on with her work.

She at first walked the length of the fence making sure she checked both sides for damage and apart from a few nails that needed hammering in the fence was in good condition and by ten o'clock she was sanding it down; a job that would take all day.

Whilst she sand down the fence her mind would drift back to the dream. Usually when she painted or sanded the surrounding area would be filled with song but today Dotty did not want to sing. There had been enough singing in last night's dream to last a year and she was happy in the silence. Old Man Thatcham's house was situated at the end of a rather long road filled with large houses with even larger gardens. Old Man Thatcham's was the largest, the grandest and the neatest. Only the fence needed repair. The rest of the house was pristine. Like a dream in itself and Dotty enjoyed looking at it from time to time. It was a house that deserved a family she always thought to herself and she wished that she could have had her family in that house. The house had a huge front door painted black and either side of it were two massive windows. Three windows were on the second floor and built into the slate roof was another smaller window. That was were Old Man Thatcham study was and where no one was allowed to go. Not even Simon according to her Dad.

You can come and play though.

Dotty carried on sanding down the uppers of the fence. She didn't ignore the soft voice coming from the girl she had met in the forest during her dream; on the contrary, she listened to the voice like she listens to all the voices.

You can come and play in the study. Mike won't mind.

'Not allowed. Dad says so.' Dotty said to the voice in her head even though she wanted too.

Ahh come on Dotty. Come and play with me. I promise it will be okay.

Dotty shook her head and stopped sanding the wood; turning her head she looked up at the window in the roof and she saw the young girl with red hair waving at her. 'No. Not allowed. Now stop asking me.'

The voice stopped and the girl moved away but Dotty was certain she was still up there, somehow watching her behind the walls and waiting for the right time to ask again. Dotty was unsure if she could keep on saying no.

14

Varula

She's a pretty thing. Sweet like chocolate with a hard middle. I would very much like to have her.

I'm going to have her. Make a nice tasty treat before and after what I has planned.

She is going to be stubborn. Simple people are always stubborn. But I is clever and she isn't. I have lived for hundreds of years and I can be stubborn too.

All I need is these others to keep on going and I will have all that I want and I will be my own mistress like I was before.

Soon Little Dotty you will come and play. Come and play with Varula; but first I am going to have a little fun with you.

See you in your dreams Little Dotty
Play Time

1

'Bring her to me, Mike. Bring her to me and I will let you have me for all time.' The red haired woman, beautiful to Mike beyond description, said as she caressed the old man's face.

He could not answer for he was besotted with her. He simply nodded in acceptance.

'That is good Mike. You are a good man. A strong man. A man that get things done. And you will get this done for me, Mike. You will get this done for me or you will face my wrath.'

The woman ran her soft hands down his chest and over Mike's naked legs. He yearned for her to do more but knew, knew deep down inside, that she would not.

Still unable to speak, he nodded once more.

'You want me don't you Mike?'

'Yes.' Mike was surprised by his own voice. The woman wasn't.

'You are strong, aren't you, Big Daddy,' the woman looked down between his legs then back to his face her right brow raised. 'But you can't have me. Not yet.'

Her lips were moist, her mouth tempting with every movement. Her body was smooth, skin pale with a soft glow. Mike wanted to reach out and touch her. But he couldn't. He mustn't. There was something about this woman. Powerful. Evil.

But she was just a woman. A woman that he could have. He has screwed many women so why shouldn't he have this one. He can have this one. He will have this one.

Mike reached out to stroke the soft skin of her bosom; his hands a soft tremble.

The woman stood; pushing Mike to the ground his head hitting the floor with a thump. Her face was now a mangled mess, her soft pale skin now ripped and decaying.

'NOT YET BIG DADDY! BRING ME THE GIRL!' She screamed and Mike...

...awoke covering his eyes. He was laying on the sitting room floor; his body sweaty and his head throbbing. He sat up rubbing the back of his head where it had struck the wooden floor. All he could remember was the red haired woman and how important it was to get the girl.

2

Simon laid upon the bank of the River Strain, the sun in his eyes the wind caressing his naked form. The woman had come to him again and had satisfied herself upon him and now she spoke to him of the girl.

He had to leave her alone, she said. He had to let her be and all will be well. He had to go from the house Tomorrow before the girl arrived and he had to come to this place and wait there all day. Not to go back. Not for anything. Not for anyone. When the sun begins to set then he could go back.

Simon was sure the woman was still there. He could feel a hot breath on his left shoulder. He was happy here on the banks of the river. Not really one for such things as lying by the river and sun bathing; but here, right now, with this woman, he was happy.

The breath was still there. The wind still blew over him but the breath blew on him. It was intoxicating that breath. Like a kiss that needn't be on the mouth. He reached over to touch the woman, to maybe get her in the mood again.

But it wasn't soft skin he felt. It was fur.

'YOU HAVE HAD ENOUGH!' The woman screamed...

...Simon awoke naked in the front garden. His hand was holding onto something furry and the hot breath that felt so good in the dream now felt dirty, weak. Wrong.

He removed his hand and looked to whatever it was lying next to him.

In the moonlight he could see what looked like a fox; its neck twisted awkwardly, its tongue hanging out and its stomach split by the hind legs.

The young man held his hands to his mouth to stifle a scream and to stop the puke. But as he did he saw they were darkened with what looked like blood; as too was his chest and arms. Following the dark blood he looked further down his body and when he saw what was covering his penis, dripping from the head like a drooling hound, the puke found its way back up, this time unhindered by covering hands; it splattered the fox.

3

Dotty was running in the fields; her father had recently ploughed. Her massive legs bound across the deep ruts, her feet; bare, dug deep into the soil. She felt free. Free as the birds in the sky and she was sure that if she flapped her arms that she could rise into the blue wonder and fly for miles and miles.

But the other girl couldn't fly. The other girl, the girl at the window, the girl of last night's dream, was on the floor covered in red.

Dotty stumbled to her. The ploughed field now the front garden of Old Man Thatcham but Dotty did not notice.

The other girl was still. Eyes shut tight to the evil that she could see. Dotty wanted to speak to her; to tell her it was okay. But her mouth was shut and she had no words in her.

The red covering the other girl wasn't blood. Dotty knew the smell of blood all too well and this wasn't it. The red was paint.

Red paint.

The front garden shifted and Dotty was in the desert. The sand was hot on her feet. Really hot. The sun beat down on her and for the first time in a long time; Dotty was unhappy. The other girl was still on the floor. But now her eyes were open and she was smiling.

'Paint it red, Dotty. Paint it all red.'

Dotty shook her head.

'If you don't, they will kill me.'

The other girls eyes shifted to the right and Dotty followed their gaze.

Dotty saw two men walking toward her the desert haze making them look like ghosts; axes in their hands blood on their clothes.

The desert grew cold and vanished and Dotty was now in Old Man Thatcham's butchers. Carcasses hung from the ceiling, the pig's faces blank; their black eyes piercing. Dotty was scared now. The other girl had gone. She was alone with the dead pigs.

'Paint it all red, Dotty.' A voice from nowhere spoke.

'Paint it all red and she will live.'

The voice was all around her, the voice was the pigs and...

Dotty awoke screaming; her hands covering her face her legs trying to run from the butchers and from the dead pigs.

4

Ted was lost in the forest. He had been walking for hours and was unsure of where he was going and why he was going there. It was hot under the trees today, hotter than it should have been. The undergrowth was brown with decay, the lush green forest burnt to death. He stumbled around, lightly tripping over loose stumps and long dead roots sticking up out of the ground like un-dead hands.

His head was thumping. Pressure building like a pot with a tight lid on the stove. Ted didn't like it here.

Up ahead the forest parted and became green again.

'The Clearing.' Ted said.

It was cooler now. The trees split and the ground opened up revealing lush green grass, a blue sky and bright yellow flowers carpeted the floor. Looking around he saw a small hut in the corner, two little bird like creatures were fluttering wildly in a jar. Beside them two men sat, one was naked the other wore a brown shirt. They looked at him and he felt as if he had interrupted a great debate. But he cared little.

His dream eyes made him look to his left where the floor was greener than what surrounded it. It glowed without glowing and when Ted stepped upon it he wasn't surprised to feel it pulsing beneath his feet. He walked along the path away from the clearing and soon he found himself back in the hot forest; but that too didn't faze him.

He walked for some time unaware of the sweat pouring from his body until he came across a woman.

The woman was tall. Plain faced with deep green eyes that stars could be born of. She stood surrounded by a pale glow; her hands were by her side, her head slightly tilted to the ground.

She spoke softly to Ted. 'I am here because of them, Ted.'

Ted sat upon the floor and looked up at the woman. 'Who?' Ted asked.

'One will kill you and your daughter. The other is sent to kill him.'

'I don't understand.'

'You are not supposed to Ted. Your daughter is in danger. A man is on a path to meet you this very day. He can help. Will help, without question; for it is his destiny.'

'Dotty. In danger? How?'

The woman looked Ted in the eyes and he was entranced by her.

'I cannot tell you Ted, for it is not I that chose your destiny. I only help you on your way.'

Ted rubbed at his eyes. 'Who sent you to help me?'

'You're wife.'

Teds eyes filled with tears but he did not cry.

'And who are you?'

The woman moved toward Ted and knelt before him. She held his head in her hands and wiped away the tears. Her skin was cold but soft. Her eyes, massive now that they were close, were lidless but full of life.

'I am Palaluka and we shall not meet again.'

Ted moved his right hand meaning to touch her face...

...But he awoke to screaming. He didn't register for a moment what was happening. He reached up to his cheek to try and savour the touch of the woman but she was gone.

The screaming intensified shaking Ted from his dream. Dotty was having another nightmare.

5

Mike had left home early the next morning. He had awakened from a dreamless sleep. He knew that he had to be away from this place before the girl arrived. Whatever he wanted her for it wasn't until this evening that he would do whatever it was that he had to do.

He had been thinking like that as he walked into the shed by the side of the house and made sure the paint he had bought for the fence was still there. He had dragged out the paint tins, opened them with a screwdriver and looked into the whiteness unaware of anything else. Grabbing a loose blade from the work bench he had cut his hand and dripped blood into the tins turning the white paint red. He would not remember doing any of this. When his work was done he replaced the lids, put the paint out on the front porch and walked to work.

And that is where we find Mike now; sat on his fat backside in his little office at the back of the butchers. His mind is blank. His eyes watching the clock slowly tick around waiting for closing time. He knew something would happen when he got home tonight and that something concerned the girl, the woman and him. That's it.

6

Simon did as he was told. He walked from his house before the girl got there and headed toward the river. It took him most of the early morning to get there and when he sat upon the bank watching the river flow past he thought of the woman that had come to him in his dreams. The dreams were becoming real. She was becoming real and tonight the woman would come to him and he would have her and they would be together for all time.

For all time.

7

Daisy and Doyle went to work as normal. Their nights had been dreamless but Varula had done her work. She had played them both. Told them to stay away, to forget about her for now and focus on the important things in life. Daisy was only come to her when she wanted her too and the same went for Doyle. But in Doyle's case; the Fates will play their own little games and we shall see Doyle a little later.

8

Dotty did not remember her nightmare and her father had not mentioned anything when they sat and ate breakfast in almost silence. When she had left for Thatcham's, Ted had asked her to be careful and that if she should feel scared today or if she felt in danger that she should come home straight away. Not dilly dallies. Home and fast. The days were still warm but the nights drew in fast.

Dotty had nodded but not really understood. Going to work today was important and nothing would stop her. She walked to work that morning not happy, not sad. She thought about the girl she had seen yesterday but even that thought was short. Lost to the birds swooping from the sky and to the rabbits hopping across the lanes.

That day she had worked hard. The fence was her swan song if you like and Dotty somehow knew this. She painted like her life depended on it. The fence turning from white to red quickly. The red paint splattering her from top to tail.

As she painted she imagined herself as a beautiful butterfly floating gently on the summer breeze. Landing on little flowers here and there and speaking with the other insects of the forest. What she didn't know and would soon become quite apparent was that the butcher would soon try and clip those butterfly wings.
The Butcher and the Butterfly

1

Mike Thatcham wasn't watching the clock that hung on his office wall but the sounds of its mechanics filled the room. He has no idea of the time, no idea that the cut on his hand ached for that matter. He was lost in a miasma of nothing. He knew not of the conversations he had had with himself during the day. That his two employees had passed by the door to his office a few times and commented to each other that the old man was mumbling to himself. The words were hard to catch all except two; oil and coal.

At roughly five-fifteen, there a came a soft tapping at Mikes office door. It was his usual alarm call but it came a small shock to the distant man sat in the semi darkness. One of the butchers informed Mike that his taxi was waiting and then scuffled away.

Mike, grabbing his coat and his summer cap trundled from the office, caring not if the door was locked and headed out of the front entrance.

On the cobbled roadway there stood his carriage for the evening driven by his usual 'man' Edwards. Mike like, Edwards. He was as old as the mountains but mindful of the privacy of such a well to do business man such as Mr Thatcham. Also he was quite, not one of r small talk and the usual filler that can sometimes be the want of a taxi driver.

Old man Edwards doffed his cap and readied the two horses as Mike climbed aboard the carriage. It was well furnished, clean and, even though the cobbled streets were bumpy and the paths to his own home mostly off the beaten track, rather comfortable. Mike let out a soft cough and Edwards clicked his throat and they were off.

The cool night air drifted over Mike. The smells of the city giving way to the muddy stink of the river Strain. They crossed the bridge, the day's sky giving way to dusk. Once over the bridge the cobbled street disappeared and the rutted track took its place. Edwards was a good driver, that's why Mike requested him, but even Edwards couldn't stop the carriage from rocking on the occasional deep rut or boulder that dotted the track.

It wasn't long before the horses were directed off the track and down into a shaded valley.

Long the road a little ways, hidden in the darkest part of Thatcham's shed, Varula was coming to life.

2

'Remember me, Big Daddy? Remember what I can give you? Remember what I said I can get for you? A familiar voice said deep in the recesses of Mikes mind.

Mike nodded and wiped his sweaty brow. Of course he remembered. How could he forget? He was about to answer when he felt a twinge in his pants. A twinge that he hadn't felt in a long time. The twinge became a caress, not some whorish grab that he had become accustomed too. The ghostly hands that had been caressing his balls drifted away and the womanly voice returned.

'I know you won't forget me Big Daddy.'

Mike felt a soft hand touch his face and he moved in toward it.

'She painted the fence today, didn't she Big Daddy. A fence you insisted was painted white, didn't you Big Daddy?'

'Yes she was.' Answered Mike to the voice in his head. He cared little for what Edwards might or might not hear. In fact, he gave Edwards little to no thought.

'Let's hope she did not disappoint, Big Daddy.' The soft hand upon his face drifted away leaving him slightly sad but happy that the woman had returned.

The taxi turned the final two corners and Mike scanned the newly painted fence that was presented to him.

Clutching the cap he wore from his head the throwing it to the floor Thatcham jumped from his seat and stood bolt upright.

'That stupid mother fucker!' he yelled to anyone that would hear him.

'That fucking motherless piece of fuck!' He once again yelled spraying the near vicinity with phlegm. 'Stop the taxi, Edwards! For fuck sake slow this cart down!'

The driver startled slowed the horses to a crawl and the brought them to a stop. It was just in time as Mike jumped down from the carriage and ran, a little clumsily mind you, toward his house and to what Edwards thought was a lovely newly painted fence.

Mike reached the fence, his cheeks almost as red as its paintwork. Big Daddy wasn't happy.

Edwards watched in dismay as the usually quiet, business like Mr Thatcham threw his arms in the air and cussed like a sailor in the Drunken Pony. He viewed the odd scene for a moment longer, making sure to note the absurdity of it all before bringing his horses to near and heading them off back in the direction he came from.

As the carriage trotted off the sounds of Big Daddies unhappiness sang like birdsong on the cool evening air.

3

I tells him it should have been white. Insists that he told that silly girl who won't come and play with me that the fence was meant to be white. He is easy to upset. Easy to make angry. He has so much anger built up inside of him it but merely took a spark for me to light's it up.

I keep telling him that she is stupid and needs to be punished and made to answer for her stupidity. A telling off is too light a punishment for this little girl. Big Daddy needs to put an end to her. Like he put an end to his stupid wife and her stupid thoughts.

I then sees something deep down in his thoughts. The farm he wants, the farm he is buying has secrets. Rich secrets!

And so I plants another seed in there. He is so easy and soon he will be all mine. Once he has taken the girl and I feast upon her I shall take his boy and then him and haves my way with whomever I wants. I will be strong again and they won't bury me away like they did before.

Go get your gun. Big Daddy. Go get your gun and let's pass judgment on the girl that knows a little too much. Let's clip that butterfly's wings. Let's have some fun.

4

Once Ted had said his goodbyes to young Dotty, he remained in the farmhouse; his dream coming back to him time and time again; like a headache that would not cease. It had seemed so real, but at the same time he knew it was a dream. His wife was dead and as for Palaluka, well for all he knew she was but merely a myth raised to keep men and woman on the path of righteousness and to stop them killing and stealing and generally fucking things up.

But still, the thought of Dotty being in danger had kept Ted away from the fields and on edge. He knew that at some point today something was going to happen and he had to be around so that he didn't miss it and put Dotty's life in further danger. It was an odd thought and one that Ted wouldn't have put much credence to in the past. But that dream and the voices he had heard yesterday had left their stain upon him.

The day trudged on much like it had for Mike Thatcham only for Ted, his thoughts were focused on his daughter, on little Dotty's safety and his want for her safe return. He had sent her off to Thatcham's place to run her no charge business and by doing so would, or possible has, caused some catastrophic damage.

Sitting in his kitchen watching the old clock that sat in the corner tick slowly over to four of the afternoon he was relieved when he heard the front door open and the familiar thud of his daughters boots hitting the porch floor.

'You home, Dad!' A voice bellowed from the porch.

'In the kitchen sweet-heart,' but more importantly, 'you okay?'

Dotty trudged into the kitchen and gave Ted a big hug. He was happy to see her but was concerned about the colour of her hands, face and clothes. They were speckled with what looked like blood.

He pushed her away and held her painted hands out to her. 'What's this?'

Dotty laughed and put her hands against his face. They were hot, sweaty and the same size as his own.

'Silly Dad. It's red paint. You know how hard it is to keep clean when you have's to paint a fence. Messy biz-e-niss.' The grin almost reduced Ted to tears.

Ted stood and nodded with a grin on his unshaven face. Dotty smiled back and headed off to the small pantry to grab her some cool lemonade.

Just paint. Not hers, or anyone else's' blood. But wait.

'What do you mean, just paint?' Ted said softly, almost to himself.

'Can't hear ya Dad.' Dotty said from the pantry in between large gulps of lemonade.

Ted raced over to the cool pantry almost bumping into Dotty as she left. 'I said what do you mean red paint? Thatcham wanted it white, didn't he?'

It wasn't really a question, more rhetorical than anything, but he needed to know.

Dotty chuckled and shrugged her shoulders. 'Paint tins were red. They were the ones left out in the shed like you said, Dad.'

She patted him on the shoulder, and then added. 'I thought's it weird but hey ho here I go.'

Teds brow moistened and his hands became clammy. All of a sudden he felt on edge again, like the safety of Dotty was even more in danger now than it had been previously. He was positive that the fence was to be painted white.

'Are you sure, Dotty? Are you sure you picked up the right tins? Was Simon there?'

Dotty shrugged, her face turned bright red and her eyes flared up. Ted knew she hated that boy for what he had done to her in the past and in those flared eyes he saw no lie.

'Yes Dad. Right tins, the only tins. And no, Simon wasn't there.'

Ted could see her discomfort. He hated questioning her like this but he had no choice. He brought her in and gave her a sweet cuddle. Patting her hair softly he said some soft calming words and then separated himself from her.

'Sorry Dotty. It's just I know how fussy old man Thatcham can be that's all.'

She merely nodded and smiled. He couldn't ask for more than that.

'Okay,' he said sighing, 'Go and have a bath and I shall put on dinner. Pork and chi...'

'TED!'

A voice bellowed from the street outside.

'TED FUCKING MOORE! YOU HAVE SOME ANSWERING TO DO MY BOY! YOU AND THAT STUPID ARSE OF A DAUGHTER AS WELL! SHE RUINED MY FUCKING FENCE!'

Ted looked at Dotty and could see tears welling in her eyes and she shook her head in denial. He went to hold her but she stepped away continuing to shake her head frantically from side to side as the angry voice continued to shout for Ted.

'They was the only paint tins. They was the only paint tins.' Dotty mumbled beneath the tears her skin a flame in the suns late red glare through the window. Ted remained in the kitchen dumb founded and unsure of what to do. Violence hadn't crossed his mind but could tell that at some point, if he didn't go to see Thatcham that his door was likely to be kicked in and he would be forced to defend himself.

Ted turned away trying to ignore the odd mumblings from his daughter. As he walked toward the front door one of Dotty's mumblings caught his ear

'Don't let him clip my wings, Daddy. I want to fly with the other Butterfly's.'

and it sent a shiver down his spine.

5

Martin heard the raised voice from a distance and he continued walking down the rutted pathway a little more cautiously than before. Whoever this Ted fucking Moore was, and his stupid arse for a daughter for that matter, they were both seemingly in trouble. He drew his gun and by the weight knew it was still loaded.

6

Mr Thatcham continued to rant as Ted reached the front door and as he opened it; the urge to close it again and run for cover made his muscles spasm. He knew that Mike was looking for a fight and he hoped he could reason with the man, but he had no clue that the fight was going to involve a twelve gauge shotgun and what looked like a man that could not be reasoned with.

7

Calm down, the silly girl's father is telling him. Calm down and put the gun away.

He is just as silly as the girl. Where is the girl? Where is my butterfly?

Tell him you want the girl outside now. Tell's him that you want her to answer for her stupidity.

He's not going to. Not going to. NOT GOING TO! Fuck that Big Daddy. Fuck that. You tell's him and you tells that prick that if you don't see the girl in less than one minute you are going to blow his head off and then smash the door in and blow his daughters face clean off.

Tell him Big Daddy.

That's it. You mean it to, Big Daddy. Just remember what we can get up to once I have them.

Raise ya gun.

That's it, Big Daddy.

8

'Come on, Mike. What's this about? The Fence?'

Mike kept the weapon cocked and aimed. 'You know damned well what this is about. That stupid bitch painted my fence red. RED!'

Ted lowered his voice and took a step forward; his hands outstretched in the universal sign for 'calm the fuck down'. A soft breeze pricked at his skin and somewhere deep within his mind screamed familiarity.

'Mike, Dotty says there was no white paint. She says, and I believe her, that the paint was red and that they were the only tins in the shed.'

'Bollox!' Mike snapped. 'Little liar. She has always tried to show me up, to make me and my family look foolish. But not today. Now you have thirty seconds.'

'I'm not bringing her out here, Mike, not until you drop your gun and calm down.'

'Twenty seconds, Ted.'

'Mike, listen to me,' Ted frantically spat, 'Drop the gun and let's talk about it. I can lower the price of the farm, pay you back and I shall re-paint the fence myself. Just drop the gun. Please!'

'Ten seconds, Ted.' The eyes were fierce, reflecting the suns late red glow.

Looks like you are going to have to kill him, Big Daddy.

'Mike, listen to me. Maybe it was your son playing tricks again?'

Mikes eyes narrowed and leant forward readying himself. Starring at the gun its twin barrels looked like tunnels into hell.

Do it Big Daddy!

'Five seconds. Don't fuck with us.'

'I think, my ill-tempered friend that you should lower your gun and let a Marksman settle this dispute.' A soft voice from Thatcham's right suggested and in the distance a rumble of thunder echoed through the valley.

9

In the field's directly opposite Teds farmhouse and from the vantage point of a small hill, Doyle Cartwright had been finishing up for the day. He had collected some more oil and coal samples to once and for all prove to old man Thatcham that there were more riches in this land than he could possibly dream of and was readying himself for the homeward journey.

Only now, he stood stock still watching the show outside Teds home. The voices were loud but unclear. He could only pick a few words but from that he could roughly put two and two together.

What the hell had gotten into Thatcham he hadn't a clue. Usually the man was reasonable, cool and calm, with a wicked tongue. But seemingly young Dotty's misdoings have finally sent him over the edge and there looked to be some bloodshed tonight to go with the Red Lady sunset.

Looking to his right Doyle caught glimpse of a man walking toward the scene. He didn't look all that familiar and carried himself like a man just shy of deaths door and in need of a goods night watering and bed. Thatcham hadn't seen him. His raised gun remained fixed upon Ted.

'Five seconds. Don't fuck with us.' Carried on the breeze but still neither Ted nor Mike noticed the stranger walk up alongside them.

Doyle's horse reared as a rumble of thunder echoed through the valley to the North, not an uncommon sound this time of year. The two gunshots in quick succession weren't that common and Doyle struggled to keep his horse from bolting.

Seeing the two bodies fall to the floor Doyle steadied his horse, mounted hard, then rode into town to fetch a posse.

10

The soft voice had been a shock to Mike and as he turned to face it he pulled the trigger sending pellets hurtling toward the farmhouse.

That wasn't the last thing the Mike ever did. The actual last thing that he did, after falling to the floor that is with blood gushing from an open wound to his throat, was to piss his pants.

11

A Marksman. Oh fuck yeah. See ya later Big Daddy.

13

Dotty ran from the kitchen, knocking all kinds of stuff over and opened the front door. She fell over Teds hunkered body and hit the floor hard. Turning quick she met her Dad's eyes for what she thought was the last time.

'It's okay, Dotty. Dad is okay.' Ted exhaled whilst smiling. He reached out to grab her and as he did he caught sight of the hundreds of pellet marks now lovingly decorating the front of his home. Some were still smoking as the two of them hugged it out on the pathway leading to their home. At the end of the path, Mike's blood was beginning to pool and turn an angry black.

14

Ted stood and brushed himself down. By the gods that had been a close one. He watched Dotty watching the blood pool around the greying corpse and looked to the heavens. He mouthed a thank-you to whoever cared to take it and then glanced at Thatcham's body. By the Old Maker this was going to take some explaining and he feared even more for the safety of not only himself but of his daughter too. A million images stormed through his mind: him hanging whilst Dotty watched, then Dotty hanging whilst he watched were just a couple. He shook them away and moved his attention to the man with the smoking iron glistening in the darkening light.

He watched the man that had saved his life, well; saved it for now at least, holster his weapon and glare at the body on the floor. He could see concern in those eyes for but the briefest of moments.

A crow screaming in the distance broke the fragile silence. Ted and the gunslingers eyes met.

Ted spoke first, 'For now I guess thank you is in order, stranger. That was getting out of hand.'

The stranger nodded. 'For now, why?'

'That there is probably the most influential well liked and most powerful man in this city. You have just killed the fucking Man Jesus as far as most people in the Sands are concerned.'

The stranger's eyes widened. 'Most people?'

'Well yeah, he's a bit of a penis if you ask me, and a few others come to that. But a powerful penis none-the-less.'

'Not the first penis that I have felled.'

Ted smirked, the stranger though did not.

Then something clicked inside Ted's memory like a familiar smell linking you to a childhood dream.

'Did you say Marksman?'

'Dad, the blood is coming into the garden.' Dotty shouted and he heard her shuffling and mumbling. Ted turned and waved a quieting hand at her. Dotty poked out her tongue but continued to shift from there to there like a child needing to piss.

Ted returned his gaze to the stranger.

'You said Marksman, right?'

The stranger sniffed, blinked and scratched his age old stubble. The man was younger than at first Ted thought, much younger, barely twenty, but those eyes. Those lifeless eyes gave him an air of authority, dignity and something else. Something Ted couldn't put his mind too. And then it hit him like a shovel to the knee. Those eyes had seen, witnessed as it were, the lives of men fall and most of them by his hand. But there was still something else about those eyes. They were familiar to Ted like a friend not seen in years or a face seen in a misty dream.

'My name is Martin, Martin Doyle. Marksman of the Crescent Moon and Holder of the Sacred Oath.' The man looked behind him, along the path he had just travelled. 'Well, at least I was.'

'Was?'

'It's a long story. And one I care not to tell.'

'Well,' Ted said, 'That makes things a bit easier.'

Like a face seen in a misty dream.

'Wait a minute. Wait a sodding minute.' Ted leaned in as if to get a better look at this Marksman. 'I don't believe it. It's you. It is you.'

The Marksman took a step back. 'Have we met before?'

'No. Yes. Well sort of.'

Far off in the distance another rumble of thunder rippled through the air.

'You were in a dream. You and another man. A man in a black cloak.'

The Marksman looked to the ground and shook his head. When he lifted it back up he began to laugh.

'What's so funny?'

The man continued to laugh and walked over to Ted, small dust motes flickering the in the dying light. He carried on laughing, stepped over the body of Mike and placed his right arm on Ted's shoulder.

'That fat penis over there is the least of our worries. Let's get inside, have a coffee and a smoke and let's treat a while on your dream and what we are going to do next.'

Ted nodded, dumbfounded.

Dotty continued to shuffle from there to there and seemed not to give two hoots to the man walking into her home. She kept watching the blood pool until the sun was almost set. Her friend was talking to her again. Her friend wanted to play.

16

Ted recalled his dream, his meeting with Palaluka, to the Marksman as they drank coffee and smoked roughly made cigarettes. They sat in Ted's kitchen oblivious to the fact that the sun had set and that their time was running thin.

The Marksman had listened, had asked no questions and repeated parts as if to confirm acceptance. He seemed little fazed that Ted had been watching them, that he had talked with Palaluka.

The Marksman stubbed out his cigarette and threw the burnt end into the filling ashtray. He sipped on his coffee while he eyes scanned the room. Placing the mug on the wooden table he looked Ted straight in the face. It was a look Ted has seen before and one he would not become used to.

'It seems as though we are intertwined, me and you, Ted. Our fates have been connected by a man that I am now hunting.'

'The man in black?'

'Correct, Ted. He is a powerful man and one that must be stopped. I fear that if I fail that the world we live in will cease to be.'

'But how? Such things are stories to scare children to remind them of deeds long past.'

'Something evil stirs in the darkest parts of our world, Ted. The stuff of nightmares. The man in black, Samson, is part of it. He works for it and will help bring it to power. The old machines of the ancient world shall be put to work and we shall burn in their wake. He has told me that the people of this world shall be like the walking dead, mindless zombies acting out the New Kings wants.'

Ted shook his head in disbelief. The world has moved on since those tales were even close to a recent memory. The only evil left in the lands was that of the likes of Thatcham and a few others like him. Greed controlled the world now. Money was the true law of the land.

'Surely we are safe here?'

The Marksman rose and paced to and fro. 'The world isn't rainbows and princess stories told by the fire Ted, you know that. The world is a crappy place, always was and always will be. It will chew you up and spit you out. I am here to try and bring order and make your life,' Ted pointed to the front door, 'and the life of your daughters a bit more pleasant. Sadly though, there is still some ancient relics that haunt our lands, some are magic some are not and it's one of these relics that I need your help finding, Ted. I need you to help me find something that has been hidden for centuries but I have it on good word that it is here.'

Ted scratched his balding head and exhaled hard. He was struggling to take this all in, to digest this flood of information. Magic, ancient machines, darkness in the darkest parts of the world. What in hells name was this Marksman going on about? Maybe he was mad. His mind lost in the Wastelands somewhere never to be found again.

'I am trying to believe you, Marksman, I am. But it all seems too much. A vision is one thing, but ancient relics, old machinery, zombies and the like? We all know the liquid that fuels them is long gone, that the knowledge has been lost for generations and will not return for generations more. It is as dead as the witchcraft you speak of.'

Martin drew his gun making Ted leap from his chair. The chair teetered, and then clattered onto the floor; the noise echoing around the kitchen. Ted raised his hands instinctively.

'I'm not going to shoot you, Ted,' Martin said softly and gestured Ted to lower his hands, 'But understand that what I tell you is the truth no matter how odd it sounds. This gun is ancient, created by men hundreds of years ago but still it works and will go on working as long as it is cared for and there are bullets to fill it. Do you not have the steam industries here, the ability to turn woods and metals?'

'But that gun...'

'The same principles go for the ancient machines that lay dormant throughout our lands. Trust me when I tell you that there are men with the knowledge, the skills and the materials necessary to run those machines. I have learnt that there is nothing too old, nothing too rotten that cannot be fixed either with force or with engineering.'

'But...'

Martin slammed the gun down on the table. Plates rattled in their shelves and Ted thought for a moment that his bowels may relieve themselves if not careful.

'Ted. I am not here to discuss the matter. Only to ask for some help. Give me that tonight and I shall be on my way and you and your daughter can go about your daily business believing whatever the fuck it is you want to believe in.'

Martin holstered his ancient weapon. 'Will you do me the pleasure?'

Ted swallowed hard and nodded. He thought about the body that lay outside his door.

'Aye, Marksman. But you will have to answer for the dead penis that graces the front of my house.'

The two men laughed.

17

Outside in the starry night, under the soft glow of the full moon, Dotty drew butterflies on the pathway with the dark red gore that oozed from the body of the late, great Mr Mike Thatcham. Varula was playing again and she wanted Dotty as her playmate. She wanted the Marksman too.

18

I wants that Marksman my little butterfly and from the ear wigging I know he is looking for me. He means to harm me little Dotty like he harmed Big Daddy. I know I can takes him, easy prey, but I need you to help me. I need you to bring him to me.

'But where are you?' A concerned Dotty asked.

I am at Big Daddy's place. In the shed under a blanket where Big Daddy thought I would be safe.

'I shall bring him to you. I shall go get him now.'

Be quick my butterfly. There are men coming, big men with big guns that will try and kills you all. I can't stop all of them.

Dotty got up from the floor and wiped her bloody fingers on her jeans. She looked in the direction of Thatcham's house. 'Can we play after? Can we play again?'

Of course my sweet. Of course. Now tell him you know where Varula is. Tell him of the big men that are coming and after I have had my fill we shall play long into the night.

Dotty charged through the front door and into the kitchen where the stranger and her Dad were both laughing. They stopped, both looking at her deep concern and sweaty brow.

She had to get her Dad out of here. She did not care for the big stranger man and what Varula was going to do to him, but she did care for her old Dad. The big men coming would hurt him and she doesn't want that. No sir!

'They are coming, Da! Big men are coming with guns!'

Her Dad stepped forward, his caring arms out stretched but Dotty didn't want any of it and she pushed him aside. The look of shock on his face was almost comical as he almost fell to the ground Dotty's strength being so great.

'No, Da. They are coming and they will kills us all.'

'Who is coming, child and how do you know?' The stranger with the lifeless eyes asked.

'Big men with the big guns.' She spat and then pointed at the stranger. 'The girl you are looking for told me to tell ya, she did. She told me to come get ya and to bring you to her. I know where she hides.'

'What the hell are you talking about Dotty?' Ted asked as he scrambled to his feet.

The stranger moved in between Dotty and her father. 'You speak of Varula?' The softness of his voice reminded Dotty of her father when he spoke to her when she was ill or hurt.

Dotty responded similarly, her eyes as wide as the moon that hung in this evening's sky, 'Yep. She is my friend and I knows where old man Thatcham hid her. She wants to help you, us. She is scared.'

'Dotty, what are you going about?' Her Dad seemed angry and Dotty knew why. He never believed in fairies, or witches or unicorns. He would always roll his eyes and move the talk onto something else. Dotty didn't like that. Especially now when she needed him to believe her.

'Da, I know what you is thinking, but trust me. We have to get out of here and get to Thatcham's house. Even if you don't believe me the men are going to hurt us, we killed him Da, we killed him.'

There was a brief silence filled only with Dotty's heavy breath and the crickets thrumming their final song of the day. During the silence Dotty watched the stranger walk toward the front door and poke his head out. She looked to her father, unsure of what he was doing and her father shrugged his heavy shoulders.

Dotty turned to face the concerned voice coming from the front of the house.

'Ladies and gents, we have ourselves a posse. Best be on our way and quick about it to.'

19

The three figures ran out of the farmhouse, hurdling the fallen body that lay in the street. Ted imagined Thatcham's hands reaching out to grab or trip him, but they didn't and he ran with his daughter and the Marksman across the road and into the fields gleaming a mysterious silver grey in the moonlight.

They headed across the fields, over the hill that Doyle Cartwright had used for his own vantage point and back down into the valley that led to Thatcham's place.

The Marksman couldn't believe his luck, but knew that luck had nothing to do with it. The orbs want to be found and when freed from there bonds they will seek out their victims and their master as though their lives depended on it.

It seems as though the Angel of Death would have the orb quicker than was expected and hopefully easier too. Martin only knew one way to trap the sisters and that was to feed them. To give them souls, fresh meat to feast upon is the only way to sedate that endless thirst for power. Martin hurdled a fence and followed Ted and the girl down into a darkening valley. He was tired, by the Maker, bone tired as his teacher would have said. But there would be no rest tonight, not until what had to be done was done.

One problem did perplex the Marksman.

His mind called out for the Angel of Death, but he didn't know if that would work. He had no clue of how to contact the winged terror and thought himself foolish for not asking when he had the chance.

All three of them traversed one last fence and arrived outside the seemingly lifeless home of Mr Thatcham breathless and panting hard but weary of what might be coming up behind them.

Martin pointed to the house. 'This is it?'

'Aye, Marksman,' Ted responded still trying to catch his breath, 'And I guess whatever it is you are looking for is over there.' Ted pointed to a large out building to the right of the large house. It was deep in shadow, the moonlight unable to bathe it in its glory.

A cool breeze swept passed the odd trio and the trees bent and groaned with its power. Martin took in a deep breath. The 'big men' as the girl put it would come across the body and seek out the killers. Martin had to presume the men would come here and here is where the stand would be. If the man he had just killed was as powerful as Ted stated then the men following would want to take their revenge and make a spectacle of the killer. Hanging was still allowed in the outer realms and a good hanging is what the people would want. He had seen it all before. They wouldn't give a fuck that Martin was a Marksman, for in the outer realms the ancient Oath Bearers carried little weight.

The girl started to mumble and shuffle her feet. Ted went to her but once again the girl pushed him away and Ted almost lost his footing. She was strong and a big. Massive, as large as any of the grand fighter's back home. She could have made a pretty penny fighting the in the rings but out here in the wilds she was just a simple retard; mocked and forever doomed.

'We haves to go to her.' The girl whispered.

'No we don't. Not yet.' Was Martins simple retort. 'She is frisky, girl. We don't have what she wants and I need to...'

Martin looked to the girl and then to Ted. Chuckling to himself he realised that it all made sense, such simple sense he was surprised he hadn't seen it before.

'She wants me, doesn't she?'

The girl tried to run toward the house and the Marksman reached out to grab her. Dotty swung one of her giant arms and it knocked Martin back into Ted and the two men fell to the ground.

They watched her run past the old house and into the darkness of the shed. They both scrambled to their feet and Martin had to restrain Ted from hurtling after her.

'Trust me, Ted, you don't want to go in there.'

'But Dotty. I have to keep her safe.'

Martin twisted Ted around so that the two men were eye to eye. 'She is safe, Ted. Safe for now at least. Varula doesn't want her. Not yet anyway. She wants me and you. She wants men. She will use Dotty to get to us and others and then if times get hard she will turn on your daughter.'

Martin felt Ted relax in his hands and could see a realisation hit him, the realisation you get as a child when you know your parents are telling the truth no matter how hard it seems.

'What do you suggest, Marksman?'

Martin refocused on the old home standing there like some ancient monolith in the moonlight.

'We go in there until I can figure out how I contact the one that can get us out of this.'

'Who would that be?'

Martin knew what he was about to say must sound totally insane, especially to Ted based on their previous conversations, but Ted had to know sooner rather than later.

'The Angel of Death.'

Ted laughed the laugh of a madman. 'Thought as much.'

20

The wood shed adjoining Thatcham's place was large, dusty and as dark as a deep cave. It had been the scene of a killing, numerous rapes and now a secret resting place for the slut Varula.

Hunkered down low, sat crossed legged on the floor was young Dotty and bathed in an ethereal purple glow which emanated from the ancient orb she stroked its glass exterior and looked deep into its core.

'What am I to do?' There was some desperation there from Dotty.

it is up to you little butterfly. You must takes me too them and keep me safe. Keep me out of harm my little Butterfly.

'I can do that.' She wiped some snot from her nose, 'But don't harm me Da. Just the stranger, okay?'

Okay, Okay, little Butterfly. Yer Dad is gonna be fine. The young Thatcham and the bastard Marksman will be enough for now.

Dotty didn't know who or what a Marksman was and didn't have enough up top to put two and two together so she merely nodded along.

Rising slowly she hooked the orb under her left arm and proceeded to step out into the cool night air. Varula pulsed softly and slowly in Dotty's arms and created a warmth around her like a comforting blanket on a cold winters evening.

As Dotty left the shed, Varula seemed to be pulsing a little stronger and the closer they both got to the house the faster and harder the pulsing seemed to get. Before walking up the front steps Dotty stopped and looked blankly at the big house.

What is it my little Butterfly?

'I'm a bit scared.'

Nothing to be scared of. I'm here; I can protect us both as long as you do as I say.

'But I can't hurt my Dad. If he asks me to do stuff I have to do it.'

We won't be hurting him. I have found another way. Step into the shadows

Dotty did as she was told and turned away from the steps and into the shadows of the overhanging trees. She ducked down making sure to hold on tight to the orb with her left hand.

Someone was walking toward her but in the gloom she couldn't make out who.

If you want yer dad to be safe do as you told. You got that Butterfly?

'Yep.' Dotty replied softly.

Good. Now jump out and grab that little twat by the throat.

21

Martin and Ted stood in the darkened living room that old man Thatcham had once frequented. It was lavishly decorated and full of golden, sparkly trinkets Martin was more used to seeing this type of home in the wealthier parts of his old homeland.

Ted felt along the wall and flipped a switch. A dull, yellowish light filled the room and Martin noted a look of deep concern on the farmers face. The last few hours looked as though they were starting to take their toll on the farmer. The house was calm; still, like the calm before a summer storm. Martin brushed his hand through his matted hair.

'Do not fear for your daughter. If what I think is happening is actually coming to pass then she is safe all the while there are men around.'

Ted slumped down in a nearby armchair. 'I don't know what the fuck you are going on about half the time, Marksman, but you seem to know what you are talking about. What next?' Ted raised his arms into the air like a cheap side show preacher among his insane followers and raised his voice to a bellow, 'Will ye be calling forth the great Angel of Death?'

Martins face contorted into an unfamiliar grin. 'I fear the only way to bring him here is too...' Martin tailed off.

'Oh,' remarked Ted, 'More dead people. Thought as much.'

The hum of the spark light engulfed the two men for a while. Neither moved though they were both restless; they both sensed something was happening outside. Dotty and the relic were up to something. Ted thought briefly about old man Thatcham and the storm that would follow and his mind's eye could clearly see the noose being wrapped about his neck and below him the three men heaving on the rope lifting Ted from his feet and into the air where he would choke on his own blood.

'Do not let it trouble you, Ted. The man died by my gun, you have nothing to fear.'

Before Ted could answer the front door burst open and the startled farmer burst forth from his chair and negotiated a path somewhere behind the poised Marksman.

23

Dotty had young Simon by the throat; her massive hand holding the pink flesh like you would the top of a bottle of wine. At any moment she could let it pop and spray all and sundry with bloody red gore. She had kicked the door in, the timber of the door not holding up to her tree like legs. In her free hand she held Varula and both Martins and Ted's eyes were drawn to it.

Dotty's eyes were fierce; ringed red with hate and wide like the hunters moon. She stumbled through the main door and into the door way of the living room. When Dotty spoke the two men could hear two voices; one was Dotty's, the other was deeper, darker and it filled them with dread.

'You two boy's best be fucking still or I'll rip this little fuckers head clean off and watch as I make you fuck the hole!'

'Dotty!?' Ted questioned, shocked at what he saw and heard.

Martin put a hand upon Teds shoulder and whispered in his ear, 'That's not Dotty. It's Varula. I think she is hungry.'

'Hungry for what?'

'Not you Daddy.' 'Just him!' Dotty pointed toward the Marksman. 'I yearn for sweeter meats.'

Martin reached down toward the gun slung low at his side but Varula had that covered off and she squeezed Simon's throat tighter. Simons face turned an interesting shade of blue, tears ran down from his eyes and mixed with the snot from is nose. It looked like he was trying to scream but the grip was too tight. Thankfully the boy knew not to struggle but his eyes were screaming for freedom.

'No guns, Marksman, not unless you want to see this young colts head rolling around the floor.'

'What have you done with my daughter?'

Dotty turned to her father; her eyes still wide and Ted wondered if whatever it was that controlled his daughter had even blinked since entering the room.

'I'm still here Daddy. Don't worry; I have mades a deal with her. She aint gonna harm ya.' For a moment, behind those wide eyes, Ted knew that his daughter was still there.

And then she was gone again. 'That's right, Daddy, you is safe as long as I gets him.' Once again its attention turned toward the Marksman.

Dotty moved further into the room seemingly unhindered by the boy she was dragging around. Her clothes were wet with sweat and the air was growing hot and musty. The young girl spat out a wad of phlegm and it hit the floor with a glorious splat.

'I have been hidden for too long, Marksman. Its time you and I danced and I fulfil this fucking curse put upon me all those years ago. Eons have passed, men have come and gone, trees have sprouted from seed and I have seen them grow into huge towering beasts. I have witnessed the rise and fall of empires. I have seen marvels of the sciences and great wars with cities bathed in fire. In that time I have consumed and I have starved, I have been satisfied and I have been left wanting for so much more and now it's time for me to stop playing games and get on with what I do best.'

Dotty inched Simon to the side making sure her grip was still tight and raised the glowing ball so that it was head height with the young man. It pulsed frantically and its white light filled the room. Ted edged away making himself merely a shadow behind the Marksman whom remained stock still.

Martin could feel Varula trying to climb inside his mind. He felt hands moving up and down his body; touching him, caressing him like a lover would on a cold winter's eve when all there is to do is to survive and to fuck. Visions of women all with the same face filled his vision and they all yearned for his pleasure. They needed him and seemingly he needed them. He could be with them, let it all go and be free of this wretched land and this meaningless life he was now leading.

But his life wasn't meaningless. He hunted. He was also being hunted. A man in black now entered his thoughts and it was this man that once again, though unintentionally, saved Martins life. He heard that bastard's voice deep in the recesses of his mind. 'Pull the trigger, Marksman' it was saying 'Pull the trigger and end the poor man's life'.

Though he didn't want to; Martin knew it was the only option.

Martin took in a deep breath, composed himself, rid his mind of the voice that was still tearing at his skin, turned his head and whispered softly to Ted, 'I'm very sorry.'

Before Ted could even act, before Ted could try and stop this man from killing his daughter the Marksman had raised his gun; its death barrel pointed at the three figures not ten paces away.

'Fuck you.' The Marksman said and the room was filled with the ancient echo of gunfire.

Under that echo Ted was yelling his remonstrations but it was to no avail; a Marksman doesn't miss.

24

Dotty released her grip on Simon's throat and his lifeless body slumped to the floor. Unlike his father he hadn't pissed his pants. At least he had that.

The orb fell from Dotty's other hand as she reeled back from the shock of the impact and she lifted her hands to her ears as the noise from the gunshot reverberated around the house. Dotty fell to the floor tears falling from her closed eyes in realisation of what she had caused.

Varula rolled around the floor coming to rest by the armchair Ted had been sat at not ten minutes past. She was covered in Simon's blood. She then voiced her concerns to the room.

'You motherless cunt! You miserable, useless cunt! I'm going to fucking kill all you sons of whores and feast upon your worthless souls and when I am done with them I shall take that stupid little cunts one too!' The orb pulsed with white light but it was motionless.

Ted ran to his daughter's aid and he knelt beside her trying to control the sobs. He could feel something trying to get into his head, a woman, no, women. They were trying to take him. Trying to seduce him. They wanted him and he wanted them. They were beautiful and they could be his if he just stopped looking after this needy little bitch beside him and went to them; went to her. But there was someone else with him now. A soft hand held his shoulder and stopped him from moving. He turned his mind's eye to see who it was. It was another woman. Familiar but a stranger too. It was the voice that shook Ted's thoughts.

'You cannot have this man, Varula. He is meant for another path. He is not meant for you.'

'Palaluka, what the fucks are you doing to me? Let me have him. Please. I need him. I have to have him.'

'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.

'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 being 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 don'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.

His eyes widened at Grendel's response. 'I see. Then can you get Petra? We need her. Can you bring her here?'

The throne room was silent for some time. Barnabas knew she was trying. Could feel it clawing at his black soul. But he was growing impatient. He had had an idea and he wanted it done now not later. He looked nowhere else but at the Orb as he waited for a response. He thought about calling for Seamus to fetch more food for Grendle but he had no need.

'Well done, Grendle. You are my favourite of all your sisters and soon you will be my favourite daughter when you are all brought together and I become your father.'

Below them on the floor, removed from her hidey hole in Patience's wretched clutches, Petra the Bitch pulsed orange heat. Barnabas stood; hiding Grendle underneath his red cloak. He walked over to Petra, his hoofed feet scratching at the floor.

'I know what you want, Petra, and by my father I would love to give you it but you cannot have it from my soul. I shall get you what you want and what you yearn for and then you can take me to that place called Rockfall. There is someone there I would love to meet.'

9

The Witch

Patience sat in her home, alone since Stephen left. She didn't mind being alone, enjoyed her single company but there was something in her heart that missed the boy called Tommy. He was simple, he wasn't much of a conversationalist but at least he was there when she needed someone to mouth off to, someone to cook diner for; even someone to scratch that age old itch that pops up from time to time.

She had been shot. Her throat ripped out by a cursed bullet from that cunt Jonah. But Petra had saved her, fulfilled a promise made when the two of them had first met and begun their wretched journey. But now Petra sensed what Patience knew and the orb was becoming restless. She was being fed, Jonah had claimed his newest victim in Stephen and so Petra – stronger and wiser than ever – wanted out.

Patience wanted revenge upon Stephen; but she was old and weak; dying.

Leaving the shade of her home she stepped out into the heat of the Wastelands.

She reached the wrecked gatepost and in both hands held Petra out so that the sun glinted off of her.

'Petra, ya cunny bitch. I need a favour from ya. If ya don't mind?'

The orange orb twisted in its socket pulsing from its core.

You aints my master anymore, witch. You aint nothing to me without a soul in yer pocket. I don't need you anymore now that Jonah's on the job. Even Old Lud has fucked off and left ya you dried up old cunt! I aint doing nothing. Grow a dick though and we may have a deal.

Patience spat out a wad of phlegm to the floor. 'Yer a foul mouthed cunt, that yer are, Petra. I aint growing no dick for yer to fiddle with but I can give yer some souls to eat; just not yet. You have to help me for me to help you.'

The Orb pulsed for a while. Patience stood out in the baking sun looking right at the ball of fire trying not to think too much, trying not to give away her secrets, her plans.

'I am hungry, witch. I need food. I need men. I shall give you what you want but if I don't get what I want and soon then I will destroy you, witch. I will rip you apart and eat your fucking guts-'

'That's enough of that, Petra,' Patience butted in, 'Just call the sand demon to me and we shall see what I can do for you.'

10

Petra looked away from the witch and her gaze scanned the horizon to the north. The ball of fire pulsed; the air around it throbbed with heat. Patience watched with bated breath. The demon would come quick for the witch but Patience had a surprise for that bastard.

The ground beneath Patience shook violently and she could feel Petra laughing behind her glass prison.

Back toward the house the hardpan began to sink into the ground and the surrounding land cracked and split with the strain. The air grew stale but could grow no hotter. Without warning a massive sand covered monster sprang from the desert tearing up the earth beneath it. Its eyes were red with teeth as large as trees. The demon beast stood twice as tall as the house and it lumbered around at first, trying to find its caller. It moved surprisingly quick considering the size of it. The beasts head reminiscent of a bulls looked around fruitlessly at first until the witch called for it and then it stopped moving and looked down at the small woman.

'It was I who called for you, Ronin, Demon on the Wastelands.'

The beast took a step forward and snorted; blowing hot sand over Patience.

'WHY SHOULD I HELP YOU, WITCH?' The beast's voice was deep, gritty and as loud as a thunder clap.

Patience took a step forward herself. 'Because you have to, Ronin.' She smiled a canny smile at the beast and her brown skin shone in the sunlight.

The beast roared causing three windows to shatter. 'DAMN YOU, WITCH. THIS IS THE LAST TIME YOU CALL ON ME. I WANT NO MORE FROM YOU.'

'So be it, Ronin. There are three bodies buried deep within you. Three brothers recently dispatched to the Green path. I want them back.'

The beast looked to the orange ball of fire and then back out to the world in which it lives. He shook his head.

'THEY ARE NOT MEANT FOR YOU, WITCH. THEY ARE BETTER OFF IN THE GROUND WITH ME.'

Patience pointed at the large beast. 'I decide what and who, bastard, not you. Now give them up to me!'

The beast seemed to shrug but he had no choice. Patience knew this.

'VERY WELL.' Ronin rammed a giant fist into the ground and let his fingers roam. It wasn't long before the hand was removed from the hardpan and upon the floor where he had been rummaging three bodies were set out; their bodies hardly decomposed.

'Thankya demon. We are done now and forever more if that's what ya want.'

The beast stamped a massive hulk of a foot onto the ground and roared into the expanse of desert. The rush of wind blew Patience skirt and made her choke on the dust.

'WHAT I WANT IS FOR YOU TO CALL ME SON.'

Patience cleared her throat, spat out a load of sand and laughed deeply. 'Why should I call ya son? You are not deserving of it and never shall ya be, wretched demon.'

Ronin clenched his massive fists. 'BECAUSE YOU ARE MY MOTHER AND I AM YOUR SON.'

'That was a long time ago, Ronin. Those days I have forgotten as should you. Let em go, demon, let em go.'

The ground shook savagely and the demon began to disintegrate; its massive hulk falling to the ground that had made it. Clouds of dust flew into the air and the wind was thick with it. When the dust had settled and the ground stabilised, all that was left was a young man; naked, apart from a pair of tatty jeans. His skin was brown, his hair as black as night and his eyes the dirty yellow of grit. He walked over to the old witch whose own eyes were wide, her mouth a silent O of surprise.

'You are and always will be my mother, no matter what has happened between us. You come from a dark place and will end up in one. But I can forgive you for that.'

Patience looked at the man before her. How much like his father he was. A true father's son if there ever was. Tall, handsome, with eyes a girl could not say no too. But he was not meant for that. He was promised to the Void and that promise cannot be undone. One sacrifice among many, one life for another. She voiced that to her son.

'Ronin, you were not meant for this world. Aye, you were born in it but I made some promises to the wrong people and you were taken. Void was yer home and a home it will always be.' The old witch turned her head and looked at the orange ball of fire. She knew hat Petra wanted.

The plan had worked.

Before Ronin could realise what was happening to him Petra had dug her claws in and the Demon of the Wastelands was consumed by the bitch herself. There wasn't much of a struggle; for too long the sand demon had been without a woman, for too long he had not felt the warmth of a bosom or the salty wetness of lips, for too long he had been alone. For too long...

But before he was completely gone, before his soul was taken and his body used as a fuck toy for the bitch he looked down to the woman whom he had called mother and wasn't surprised when he saw that she was smiling.

11

Patience was silent. Contemplating here ragged existence on this world slowly going to the dogs as she looked at the three bodies motionless on the hardpan. Her son was gone now. He had been gone for a long time but now he was truly gone. Lost to the orb bitch herself and there was no way out of that nightmare. The Wastelands had grown eerily quiet. The wind, as constant as Old Mother in the night sky, had withered away. Even Petra's constant rabble was diminished.

She shuffled over to them kicking up little dust motes as she did; her eyes not leaving them, her mind trying to focus on what she had to do.

Petra watched Patience behind the glass prison, happy, fulfilled for the time being and Patience felt that calmness in the air. Reaching the bodies and standing by them the scent of decaying flesh wafted up her large nostrils and wrapped itself around her gut.

Used to that foul smell the old witch is and she chuckled to herself and kicked one of the arms of the bodies that were hanging out. It moved but did not recoil. The three men were fully dressed in the garb the desert asked for; tight hard wearing shirts, jeans and mule caps. All three had the same features and their bodies looked hard, fierce and ready. Each of them had their long hair tied back with bits of coloured string.

Pulling up her dress, Patience knelt besides the oldest looking of the three.

'Didn't think I'd ever see the day when the Quints walked the path.' She whispered to the lifeless body and she remained there as she scanned his two mates.

What a trick this would be for Stephen. How Patience would love to see his face when he turns the corner and sees these three wretched fucks waiting for him. They would gun him down, like they should have done back in Rockfall, and string him up for the entire world to see. One of the brothers would carve Patience's name into Stephens's damned flesh and his body would be hung from the tallest tree and left out for the birds to peck at. That would teach him for killing her. He would look back on that day when he shot her to save the life of some stupid bitch and rue it till his eyes bled and is heart exploded.

The old witch stood quickly. Her eyes were wide with anticipation and her heart had started to race. It would need all her skill in the dark arts to raise these men from the dead. Aye; their bodies were here but their souls were lost in the Void and needed finding before they are consumed by some foul begotten demon. She took her time to ready the bodies, moving the corpses without a struggle, without breaking a sweat. Soon evening would come and the stars would shine down upon the four of them casting their own magic upon the filthy Wasteland.

In the distance and whilst Patience busied herself with the Quints, Petra, yearning to be free, heard a familiar voice calling her name.
Epilogue

Rockfall stood in misery. The bodies of the recently murdered were piled high in the church awaiting burial. It was a sad place for those left and soon Rockfalls population would drop further.

Susie was sat on top of Hangman's Hill looking out over the town she had once called home. She had meant to leave today, but something or someone had talked to her this morning and told her to come up here, on this recent killing ground and wait. She hadn't recognised the voice in her head, it wasn't hers, or Cathy's and it certainly wasn't Stephens. She could pick his voice out of a million others. But alas, she doubted she would ever hear that voice again. He had left her what seems like weeks ago but she knew it hadn't been that long. Time has a way of moving quicker than you think now, she knew this, but for her the days stretched out like weeks and the nights seemed to go on for an eternity.

Stephen had left her with no one. Even poor Tommy had been taken. She cradled the non-existent bump protruding from her belly and rubbed it caringly.

'I have you, though, and no one will take that away from me.'

She breathed in hard. The sun was high, just after midday, and the air was hot. A foul smell was carrying on the breeze and Susie turned her nose up at it. The wind whipped around the hill carrying sounds of the dead town beneath her. Susie knew she had to move on as before long it would be too late; the will power needed to pack up and go lost to the sands that covered the floor she walked on.

Looking over her right shoulder she shaded her eyes against the sun and scanned the area where Stephen had shot down the Quint brothers. Faintly, she could make out the darker sand where the victim's blood had pooled but that was all that was left of his presence up here.

Her heart grew heavy as she thought of him. Susie had loved him; deeply, and she knew he had loved her back. But it seemed as though, once he had killed and got whatever it was he had come to get that he was forced to move; that he had no choice even if that meant leaving someone behind that he loved.

'It was me who ordered him away, Susie. I am the one to blame.'

Susie's eyes widened as she looked about wanting to find the voice but there was no one there. The voice had come from all around her, beside her, behind her, even on top of her. The hairs on the back of Susie's neck stood up and a cold chill ran down her spine. Thinking she must have imagined it Susie decided that now would be the best time to move on.

'You have been patient, Susie.'

This time the voice came directly from behind. A cold voice. Low and dangerous. She turned fearing what she would see and was surprised, so surprised that her heart leapt and her mouth became dryer than the Wastelands when she saw cool grey eyes staring at her.

'Stephen?' She blurted out.

The man began to laugh. Susie did not recognise the laugh and she started to doubt herself.

'Who are you?' She asked the man.

He did not reply only kept on laughing; his mouth growing wider with every chuckle.

'Who are you?' Susie screamed and she held her head in her hands and started to cry.

The man ceased his singular wit almost as quick as he had started it. Susie watched as the man she had loved drifted away and left a monster in its place. It was much taller than Stephen, its face twisted and contorted; but human. Its arms were long and the hands finished with deadly talons. The body was covered in a black shawl but its two legs were bare and where there should be feet hooves dug deep into the dirt. Whatever it was in front of her was breathing hard and with every breath Susie winced; waiting for it to pounce. Upon its face the beast wore a small smile.

Susie could only scream at what stood before her.

'ENOUGH!' The beast yelled and Susie did as she was told.

'That's better. No need for dramatics.'

Susie was speechless. Scared out of her mind. Her nightmares were nothing compared to the beast man that stood before her. Standing stock still she tried to calm her breathing and stop her tears.

'Silence always suited you,' Susie watched the beast look her up and down; 'I can see why Stephen was so attracted to you.'

His eyes felt like ice upon her skin. Gooseflesh raised its ugly head upon her body and she shivered.

'Do I scare you that much, young one? Do I look so terrifying?' The beast cocked its head questioningly at Susie and could do nothing but stare and remain silent.

'I will be swift, my time here is limited. You have what I want and I am here to collect it.'

Susie was surprised. She had nothing. Even being scared out of her wits she knew she had nothing to give whatever it was that was in front of her. The young girl shook her head and tried to remove her eyes from his. It was a futile gesture.

'Let's not play games, Susie. I am too old for such things.' The beast pointed one large talon at her belly.

Susie took a moment and then realised what this thing wanted. Instinctively she cradled her stomach trying to protect it.

The beast's eyes widened revealing their dark inner core. Susie noticed that even the sun light could not reflect in such hellish places.

'You will not be able to stop me, girl. To struggle means to die.'

Susie stepped back but seemed to get no further away from the beast. 'You can't have my baby.'

The beast man lifted his head to the sky and laughed.

'I can have whatever it is that I want Susie, and I want your baby.'

Susie shook her head maniacally. There was no way this was happening. She had to go. Run far away from this monster. She went to move but couldn't.

'It is too late for that.' The beast said and that is when Susie heard a shuffling behind her. Before she could turn there was a sharp pain on the back of her head; her eyes filling with bright stars and then nothing. Susie was unconscious.

When she awoke Susie found herself staring up at a wooden ceiling. Her eyes felt heavy and it took numerous times to keep them open. The room she was in was dark. Light shone in from both left and right. She tried to move her head to see what was around her but nothing happened. She tried to move her body; but nothing moved. The pain in her head flared up and Susie knew from the dampness in her hair that whatever it was that had hit her had drawn blood. She closed her eyes and focused all attention on moving. But it was no good and she breathed in hard trying to regain her composure even though she was trapped, injured and scared out of her mind.

'She has awoken, my Lord.' A strange voice said. From which side Susie was unsure.

'Good, Samson. Now watch as our future is born.' That was the voice of the beast man.

Samson. Where had Susie heard that name? She was sure she had heard it but couldn't remember when. But that was not important. What was important was that hadn't they said something about a future being born? She was sure they had. She tried to move her head down to see her belly but couldn't but she could tell that it was larger. Much larger. Whatever had been in there was seemingly ready to come out.

'Is Martin safe? Have you ensured his survival?' The beast man asked the man called Samson.

'Yes. He is safe. The townsfolk would have had their way with him if not for me. Sooner or later he will realise.'

The beast man chuckled and sounded as if he moved away if only to return.

'You see I have Grendle and Petra and now Varula. Three down, Sorcerer. Once you are finished Arda will join them. I can already feel myself growing stronger.'

Susie had to leave the conversation as she started breathing heavily and again she tried to struggle free. The pain in her head was matched by a stabbing pain in her stomach and then that pain was surpassed by a ripping sensation on her right side.

'He is coming, Samson. He is coming and he is hungry.'

We shall leave the mind of Susie and drift above this wretched scene for it is too hard to describe what poor Susie is about to go through.

Her body is sprawled on the floor. She is in a position like the man Jesus himself nailed upon the cross; her massive belly sticking up like a hill rising up from a plain. Her skin is pale and sweaty; her breathing fast and shallow. Blood oozes from between her legs but with her legs closed nothing will be leaving from that way out.

The massive belly begins to move as Susie starts to scream in pain. It is a scream that stays in the room until it is all over. Her skin rips on the right side and then there is an awful snapping sound from somewhere in her chest. Faintly a chewing sound can be heard but it is overshadowed by the screams.

Susie's belly now seems to be convulsing rapidly; small lumps appear where something is trying to get out. This goes on for minutes and Susie's breathing almost disappears as the pain sends her over the edge and too a place saved for such victims.

Blood pools upon the dirty floor and with a massive crunch and a tearing of flesh the young baby, the size of an average two year old, rips its way out of Susie and stands wobbly on top of the destroyed belly.

The young child is covered in gore. Blood drips from its chewing mouth. It takes no heed of the two men stood in the room as it drops to the floor and continues to eat its way through the remaining flesh of its dead mother.

Barnabas looked over to the Black Sorcerer; a massive smile upon his face which revealed set of razor sharp teeth. Back in his own land he felt better, complete and not as vulnerable as he was in Rockfall. But more importantly; he was happy.

'Our General is born, Samson. This one of many. The army has a leader. The young girl has been a good host but her part is almost over.' The Wretch King looked back over to the baby and watched him a moment longer; eating hungrily on the corpse. He then adds, 'Off you go Samson. Our army will need weapons. Find those Crankers and let them see that the ancient Seer's were right. Leave Stephen to gather me the boy. We have all the orbs now and so we must be careful. Great Mother will seek them out and soon I must ask for Arda so that they may be reborn.'

Samson nodded, looked to his King and bowed slightly. He revealed the black Orb Arda and, stroking the glass that holds her, he disappeared leaving no one in the room but the son of Stephen and the Wretch King himself.

*** *** ***

In an abandoned ancient place a rusty old sign marked - Gatwick Airport - groaned back and forth. Samson contemplated his next move. They had the orbs. It had been easier than at first thought but that meant that Arda would have to be given up; sooner rather than later. Too soon for his liking. Samson didn't want that. Not yet anyway.

He was surrounded by tubular hulks that looked like giant dead birds, their wings consumed by nature their once vibrant colours washed away by the many years of rain. Somewhere near here the ancient weapons, vehicles and war machines sat hidden and dormant. Dormant but not dead. The strange people known only to those that knew as the Crankers made sure that these relics remained of use as one day it was foretold that they would be needed again.

That day was here. But there was a seriously freighting danger in those mines, best that the Watchman goes first, just in case and all that. Samson believed what was best was to begin gathering followers, but not the kind that Barnabas wanted.

Samson looked over as he heard a rustle coming from a nearby bush. His eyes narrowed, trying to see what was making the noise. He leaned forward; his black cloak gathering on the forest floor. The rustling sound continued until a large fat rabbit jumped from behind the bush and into the small open area that Samson was lord over.

The rabbit stopped in its tracks when it saw the human.

Samson waved a loose hand toward the small creature.

The fat rabbit dropped down dead; its fate that of those that stood in his way.

The age of the Wretch King, no scratch that... the age of Samson Little the Black Sorcerer has begun.

*** Ѻ ***

Thank you for reading my book. Please leave a review, good or bad if it does please ya. This is the first in a series of books that will follow the paths of Stephen, Martin and the Black Sorcerer unlocking secrets of a world thousands of years old to them, but of our present time. The next book in this series we will meet up with Stephen as he ventures under the mountain and into the mad clutches of Lud in search for The Boy.

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