by Peter Newman
She finds herself standing in the Fallen Palace once more. The courtyard is full of her fellow Usurperkin, each trying to distinguish themselves from the others. Some have spiked their hair to add to their height, others have marked their flesh in dedication to the Usurper, though she also notices a few gather around other demons. She does not like that.
While she has been away more Usuperkin have been made, along with other half-breeds, their flesh a collage of colours, unnatural, their bodies full of lumps and twists, extra bits of bone, unwanted, trying to find a way into the light.
There are other infernals here too. She knows a few: the Felrunners, the Backwards Child, Gutterface, who all contested the Usurper for possession of Gamma’s body and lost. They are forced to serve now, their essence forced into loyal shapes. So long as the Usurper endures, ambitious natures are held in check. Enemies made into subjects, kept close on invisible leashes.
And then there are the favoured ones, like her. The Knights of Jade and Ash, encased in their living, writhing armour; and the Man-shape, ordinary looking, servile. She does not understand why it is cherished so, given how small it is, but she does not question the Usurper’s judgement. None of them do.
It occurs to her then that this is a massing of force, and that it has been brought together for a reason.
There is growling and shouting, and bravado fills the courtyard, the half-breeds and lesser infernals noisy by nature. By contrast, the greater infernals say nothing, do nothing, a group of fleshy statues, grotesque.
And so when the Usurper makes any move, it draws attention. The infernal raises a claw-tipped hand and everyone stops. Its fingers point towards the Hammer, as do the eyes of all present. They beckon, pulling her forward, an irresistible gravity that she does not resist.
It is well known that the Usurper enjoys public acts. If a servant is to be rewarded or destroyed, all get to see it, a constant stream of reminders of who their monarch is and why they should serve it well.
The Hammer strides proudly forward. She has nothing to fear, for she has served as well as any here and better than most. But when the Usurper turns its gaze upon her, a small worry rises. Perhaps it will sense her lack of joy. Perhaps it will punish her as her old owners used to. For the briefest of moments, she is a child again, angry and helpless.
She keeps walking however, she has no choice, drawn closer until she stands before the Usurper. For a full minute it studies her, reading things in her essence, evaluating.
The assembled dare not make a sound, dare not move. All watch, waiting for the judgement to fall.
Then, the outstretched hand turns over, clawed thumb pausing over her eye, her right eye. The Hammer remembers Knuckle, how she maimed him but did not kill.
The Usurper’s thumb flashes forward, too fast for her to stop. It passes her head, plunging into the meat of her shoulder, claw, digit, all swallowed up, the infernal’s palm slapping the outside of her arm.
She is close enough to see the scars that riddle its shell. Not battle scars, for little in the world exists that can harm the Green Sun of the infernals, but stretch marks, tears where essence leaks, wafting when it is still, spurting when it moves. A slow bleeding of the soul.
The Usurper removes its thumb and leans forward, mouth opening to cup the wound. She feels teeth settling either side, pressing but not cutting, then there is an exhalation, not of breath but of essence, a fresh injection of the Usurper’s power.
Muscles tighten and bones strain, her body expanding an inch in all directions to accommodate. Whatever doubts she has are washed away in a tidal wave of malevolence.
The Hammer throws back her head and roars in triumph, the other Usurperkin joining her, taking pride in her elevation, hoping that one day, they will join her.
But the Usurper has not finished. It steps away from the Hammer, arms raised high, and the roaring stops. This time the fingers beckon the Knights of Jade and Ash. They come forward, each bearing a piece of metal, thick plating torn from tanks. They place them against the Hammer’s skin, measuring, pressing them into place. When each is ready, the commander of the knights raises a rivet gun, blackened, rusty. Usually a robotic arm would be used to manoeuvre the weighty tool, but the commander manages just as easily.
There is a crack, thunderous, as the first rivet slams home, punching through plate, through green skin, hooks spreading, grabbing hold inside.
The Hammer roars but she does not move.
Standing there, under the gaze of the court, in the Usurper’s shadows, she does not move.
Another rivet, another shout blasting into the sky. Each sends her rage soaring, burning up a little more of the girl that was.
It is only when they have lowered the helmet into place that the tears fall. Unseen, unfelt, they do not count.
Fresh tears prick her eyes, bringing her back to the present. She bats them away with furious blinks before looking around.
Neither Dally nor the Woven Woman have seen her face, both too busy attending to her bloodied fist, and where it will go next.
The Hammer swallows in a throat suddenly raw. ‘Where goat?’ she asks. And this time, the Woven Woman is all too eager to help.
They walk slowly towards the cave, the Hammer pacing herself to conserve what remains of her strength.
‘I wasn’t scared,’ says Dally. ‘Before, with the Woven Woman. I was just … surprised.’
‘You screamed.’
‘Yeah, ’cos I was surprised.’
The Hammer snorts.
‘That was amazing though, what you did. The Woven Woman was all,’ he sticks out his arms and splays his fingers, ‘“I’m going to wrap you and eat you,” and you just went up that tree like it was nothing and beat her up. It was amazing!’
The Hammer shrugs. ‘No.’
‘It was!’ Dally insists. ‘You’re amazing! You don’t take anything from anyone.’ He is interrupted by a rumbling sound that passes as much through the earth as through their ears. Dally’s eyes widen in fear, then again in excitement. ‘That must be the Tree Lizard the Woven Woman warned us about. I can’t wait to see what you do to it!’
The Hammer smacks a fist into her palm. ‘You like?’
‘Yeah!’
For a moment the Hammer looks sad, then she thinks of what a tree lizard might do with a goat. She rolls her shoulders, cracks her knuckles one by one, ten little thunderclaps, and jogs up to the cave entrance.
It is wide and high, easily enough to accommodate the Hammer’s bulk. Inside, the generous space is filled by a body, thick and powerful. The Tree Lizard is named for three reasons: its size, the dull hue of its scales, and the fact that shrubs grow in patches all over it, like moss on a mountainside. Claws as big as the Hammer’s thighs tip each of the Tree Lizard’s limbs, and rows of teeth glisten in a mouth far too large.
It regards the Hammer with slitted yellow eyes and makes a low unhappy rumble in its throat, threatening.
The Hammer does not care. She looks around the floor of the cave for bones but sees only the skeletons of birds, scattered and artful. Moving further into the cave, she peeks into potential hiding places.
A second rumble heralds the movement of the Tree Lizard’s head as it descends towards her.
The Hammer raises her fists, looking up into a face full of teeth, jaws big enough to swallow a Usurperkin in one swift snap.
But it is not this that shocks the Hammer.
Atop the Tree Lizard’s head is a crown of wriggling vines. Though they appear like plants reaching for the suns, they are in fact burrowing down, inching their way towards the Tree Lizard’s brain.
Watching them, balanced on the creature’s broad skull, is the goat, dark eyes rapt, following each convulsion of the fibrous worms. A bearded chin dips down as she snares one of the burrowers and sets to work, devouring the devourer. Sensing the threat, the others burrowers go still, waiting for the danger to pass.
And, instantly, the Tree Lizard stops, and lids half-close as
the great beast growls again, softer this time, a sigh of relief.
Not used to being ignored, the Hammer stands ready, fists clenched, muscles taut.
The goat lifts her head, bringing a writhing form into the light. There is a brief struggle, and then, as if by magic, the burrower is gone.
The goat burps.
Meanwhile, the other burrowers return to their digging, mindless and hungry. The Tree Lizard’s eyelids twitch, and it makes an unhappy sound, tipping its head.
The goat leans at an alarming angle but does not fall off. She quickly bites at another burrower and again the others freeze, giving the Tree Lizard a respite from the constant tickling pain.
Fists uncurl, and the Hammer scratches her head, unsure what to do.
One after the other, the burrowers are winkled out of the Tree Lizard’s skull and eaten. As each one is removed, the great head sinks a little lower. Eventually, its chin touches the floor of the cave. Teeth are veiled and soon, snarling turns to snoring.
Mission complete, the goat skips the short distance to the ground, arriving at the Hammer’s side.
‘Goat!’
The goat bleats, and the two leave the cave.
Outside, Dally is waiting. ‘Did you kill the Tree Lizard?’
‘No.’
‘Did you fight it?’
‘No.’
‘What happened?’
She gestures back towards the cave. ‘Sleeping.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He pretends to attack an invisible foe. ‘You knocked it out with one punch!’
The Hammer pauses, smiling at the image before walking past. This is taken as agreement.
‘Cool!’
Dally talks about the punch that never was as they return to the village, while the goat follows at a distance, glowering. By the time they get back, the suns are spiralling towards the horizon and the ‘Hammer-punch’ has become a thing of legend.
‘Go home,’ says the Hammer, then a second time, warmer. ‘Go home.’
Dally waves and runs off, excitement carrying him quickly away.
Not long after, the goat appears at her side again. The Hammer strokes her ear. ‘You like?’
The goat bleats, firm. She does not.
The Hammer chuckles, moves her hand down to the goat’s back instead.
When they return to the room, she finds she is exhausted, dragging her feet as much as lifting them. Moments after her head has touched the wall, the Hammer is asleep. As ever, the Usurper is waiting for her.
Sunslight smudges on dirty plasglass, making a bloody brown. The Hammer sits up, abrupt, startling the goat. She snatches up the platinum coin, tossing it several times, banishing the past.
Her hand moves across to her shoulder, double checking. Having lived in her armour for so long, it is still a surprise to find skin, not metal. She feels the scabby plug beneath the bandage but little pain. Despite the dreams, she is sleeping better, healing faster.
After food, a restlessness sinks in. Her old strength has not fully returned but she is alert again, healthy enough to be bored. For a while she practises with her coin, the goat’s head tracking its progress, up and down.
She catches it, making a fist as she stands, and goes over to the pile of armour. She takes each piece and lays it out, touching in turn every hole left by the rivets. When she is done, she touches the corresponding scabs on her body, thoughtful.
The goat watches the Usurperkin walk to the doorway, watches her leave. She waits a while before getting up and walking casually to their bag of supplies. Dark eyes regard the empty arch, glancing occasionally at the bag.
At some unknown signal the goat begins to nose around the bag, worming her mouth inside the flap to find the treasures within.
The Hammer moves through the rooms in the tower, scattering rats and other skittering things. Scavengers have already taken most items of value, but sometimes she stops, pulling scraps of leather and plastic from the dust.
When she has exhausted the tower, she goes outside, moving through the village with purpose. Worn-down inhabitants continue with their daily drudgery, doing their best to ignore the Hammer, hoping she will reciprocate.
She barely notices the people, focusing instead on the broken machines still peppering the surrounds. Each one is gone over slowly, lifted, flipped, scoured for anything unpicked by previous looters.
At last her hands are full of materials, shreds and strips of this and that. A girlish grin sketches itself across her face as she bounds back to her room.
The room is not as she left it. Their bag of supplies lies on its side, like a dying creature vomiting its insides across the floor; a stream of half chewed things, still wrapped.
‘Goat?’
The goat appears to be asleep.
‘Goat?’
The goat looks up, an innocent expression belied by a dirty mouth.
The Hammer points. ‘Bad goat.’
The goat snorts and the Hammer shakes her head, going to where she has laid out her armour. Pieces are held up, touched together, angles and flexibility played with.
The goat goes back to sleep.
Odd strands of material are twisted together for strength, then threaded through the holes in the plates. The Hammer checks the length of each one, muttering approval when any is of sufficient length. Pieces that are too short or too frayed are discarded randomly, dropped or thrown over her shoulder.
Footsteps running up the stairwell make her pause.
She and the goat turn to meet the intruder. The goat bleating, the Hammer clenching her fists.
Neither expect the small boy to appear.
‘Dally!’ exclaims the Hammer.
A hairy hand is waved in greeting, then wiped over a sweaty brow. Dally is agitated, forcing out words, breathless. ‘They’re … coming … right now!’
‘Who?’
He holds up a hand, gulps down some more air. ‘These two greenskins, big ones. They’ve been asking around, moving from village to village. I heard them talking to my mother’s friends. They were asking lots of questions and now they’re coming here! I thought you’d want to know.’
The Hammer scowls. ‘For me?’
‘Uh, no. They’re looking for a man and a special sword. They say he’s got a little baby with him and a goat. They’ve been tracking him. And I heard you came here with other men and I thought I should tell you.’ Dally looks at the goat. ‘I don’t care if they get the goat but I don’t want anything bad to happen to you.’
‘You don’t?’
‘Of course not! You’re my friend. My mum says I’m not supposed to be friends with you but don’t worry,’ he winks, ‘she doesn’t know I’m here.’
‘How long?’
Dally shrugs. ‘Don’t know. I ran as fast as I could but they have longer legs than me.’
The Hammer nods and starts to put on the armour. The greaves are easy but tying the knots along her side to link breast and back plates is challenging. Fingers fumble and the Hammer begins to growl with anger, making Dally retreat and the goat bleat with alarm.
She tries again, fails. ‘Stupid hard!’
‘I could help,’ says Dally, making the Hammer glare at him. He takes another step back. ‘If you want.’
A few deep breaths are taken, exhalations rumbling, ominous. ‘Yes,’ she says.
Dally brightens and scampers over.
Shortly afterwards, it is done and she pulls on her gauntlets. Experimental movements are made, arms are raised overhead, swung back and forth. ‘Yes,’ she says again.
‘Where’s your other arm bit?’ asks Dally.
He refers to the missing bracer, torn free to make a cast. An apology for a leg easily broken, not so easily fixed. ‘Gone,’ she says.
‘Oh, that’s bad.’
‘No,’ corrects the Hammer, ‘good.’
They go outside together, finding the gardens as they left them, a couple of people in washed out clothes wandering through, aimless.
Dally
goes to watch for trouble while the Hammer crouches just inside the tower.
She does not have to wait long.
‘They’re coming! They’re coming!’ shouts Dally, not quite thrilled, not quite scared.
‘Hide,’ says the Hammer, and he does.
Heavy boots crunch on the path, a pair of voices talking to each other, deep, growling, unmistakably Usurperkin.
The Hammer listens, letting them get close before whispering: ‘Goat, go!’
The goat looks up at her and chews a couple of times.
‘Go!’
The goat looks away again.
The Hammer smacks the goat on the rump, launching the animal through the tower’s exit. A series of vitriolic bleats follow.
It catches the attention of the Usurperkin, who run over. Peeking round the corner, she can only see one of them. Not the biggest of her kind but not small either. Scavenged plates of metal clump over parts of his skin. No helmet, the Hammer observes. A long pipe is balanced over one shoulder, each end sharpened to a rough point.
He stoops over the goat, who tries to run. A large hand catches the goat by the neck, making dark eyes seethe with anger. She kicks out, hooves clonking on a thigh plate. The Usurperkin laughs. ‘Got it!’ he shouts.
At the exact same moment, the Hammer charges. Her opponent has time to hear her, to turn, give a look of surprise, then horror, a black-painted bottom lip curling down, and then she is on him.
She takes his wrists in her hands, squeezing hard, lifting him up but not stopping.
The pipe is dropped.
The goat is dropped.
The Hammer keeps running.
Boots flail in the air in front of her, sometimes glancing off her stomach. She ignores the distractions, driving the tip of her helmet into her enemy’s unguarded throat.
While he coughs and chokes in her grip, her forehead still against his neck, the Hammer charges across the nearest garden, obliterating crops. She hears the other Usurperkin cry out behind her. Another male, not far away. She grunts as the one she carries makes a more concerted effort to kick at her, but keeps going. She is almost there now, almost at the centre.
One last kick is endured, and then the Hammer skids to a stop, opening her hands. The Usurperkin flies away from her, momentum still with him, falling straight onto the old perforated tube that once watered the area. It is not that sharp, but speed and weight give it an edge, so that it rises quickly from the Usurperkin’s chest, a magic tree of metal, sprouting full-grown.