by Peter Newman
There is a gurgling sound, proof of life. The Hammer steps round the tube, delivering two swift blows to the Usurperkin’s forehead. Each one drives it further down the shaft.
The gurgling stutters in time with each impact before cutting off, dead.
Though impressive, the exertion takes its toll on the Hammer. She leans on the tube, letting it share the burden of her leaden limbs, while wounds complain and her heart beats her breastplate from the inside.
‘Behind you!’ shouts Dally.
The Hammer grunts, forces herself to turn.
The second Usurperkin is nearly on her, his weapon raised high; a jagged blade wedded to a steel pole. He wears little in the way of armour, of anything, a few bits of cloth covering his hips and legs, and a single studded band over his head, angled to cover an empty right eye.
Her own widen in recognition.
It is Knuckle. A few more scars but otherwise unchanged.
Now that she has seen him, he stops, pulling back, glaring from under a thick fringe. ‘You!’ He lowers his axe. ‘You getting prey for the master? So am I. No need for us to fight. Goat is here, man and Malice won’t be far. We can hunt together. Share the glory.’
She shakes her head.
‘Then hunt well, if you can.’ He laughs. ‘You are tired, I am not. I will find them first, take them to the master. This time, the Green Sun will shine on me!’
She takes a deep breath and shoulder plates groan. ‘No.’
He is already partway through leaving when the sense of what she has said filters through. He stops, looks back. ‘No?’
‘No,’ she says again, leaping forward.
She has hoped to surprise him but she is weary, not as fast as usual. Knuckle hops back, maintaining distance, just out of the Hammer’s reach, just inside his axe’s.
He swings, and she remembers not to block with her bare arm. The blade bites deep into the bracer, sticking there.
From somewhere behind them a stone sails, bouncing off the back of Knuckle’s head. Both he and the Hammer ignore it.
She pulls her arm up, yanking the axe with it, trying to unbalance him. He goes with her for a moment before grabbing the haft in two hands, pulling back.
Normally she would laugh at such efforts but fatigue is weighing on her, allowing him to check her momentum.
The axe comes free and he brings it up, high, ready for a heavy attack.
Her instincts tell her that the time to act is now but her hand travels slowly, as if moving underwater.
Another stone comes in, this one skimming the edge of Knuckle’s ear. He hisses through his teeth, glancing round for the source of the irritation. When he sees it is Dally, his lip curls in a sneer and he returns his attention to the Hammer, just in time to get struck in the face.
She aims for the left side driving the ridged edge of her gauntlet into his eye socket. It is not deep enough blind him, but when he looks up at her, it is through a watery slit.
Furious, Knuckle swings for her, wild. She backs off from the first attack, slaps away the second. Already, skin puffs out around his injury, pressing eyelids together.
She waits, giving ground, measuring her breath, trying not to sway. Another swing nearly drops her, sparks springing where blade scrapes greave.
Then, he blinks.
She lunges forward, striking as hard as she can, the same spot. Knuckle spins, and when he faces her again an egg of swollen flesh seals his eye.
He manages to swing the axe one last time before she drops him.
‘Wow!’ shouts Dally, running over. ‘You did it! You beat them both.’
The Hammer nods. ‘You help.’
He grins. ‘I did.’
She looks round for the goat as Dally begins to hop back and forth, cutting at the air with a stick.
‘What this?’ asks the Hammer.
‘I’m practising. I’m going to be like you when I grow up!’
‘No!’ It is practically a shout.
Dally falls over, crushing several limp-petalled flowers in the process. His bottom lip begins to quiver.
‘No,’ she says again, snatching the stick from his hands. ‘Not me. You weak.’ She snaps the stick. ‘See? Not me. Be you.’
‘I don’t understand. You don’t want me to be like you?’
She grabs the front of his tunic and lifts him from the mud. ‘Be Dally. Live longer.’ She stands him up. ‘Be happy.’
Dally sniffs. ‘Okay.’
‘Go home now. To mother.’
‘Okay. Will I see you tomorrow?’
The Hammer shakes her head and Dally sniffs again. She taps her fist to her chest. ‘Not forget.’
‘Me neither. Say you’ll come back one day and visit?’ He looks up at her, hopeful.
She scowls, then the lines smooth from her face, making it seem younger. ‘Yes.’
‘Really? You promise?’
‘Yes.’
Satisfied, Dally waves and runs off.
When he is out of sight, the Hammer crouches down by Knuckle and snaps his neck. She stands up again. ‘Goat?’
The goat has not gone far but she has turned her back to the Hammer.
‘Goat?’
The goat makes a point of looking in the opposite direction.
The Hammer sighs and starts to collect some stalks from the garden. When she has a handful she returns to the goat. ‘Goat?’
The goat looks at the offering, sniffs and looks away.
The Hammer goes back to the garden. Three times she adds to the load in her hands before the offering is accepted.
It is not easy to fit the whole bundle into the goat’s mouth but both are stubborn and in the end, the stalks are wedged into place, protruding several feet either side of her jaws. When the goat walks she looks like a tightrope artist, head bobbing, comic.
The Hammer laughs, then turns.
She sees something on the horizon, a group of people walking into the village. The two leading the group are familiar. Teeth are bared, delighted. Harm and the man have come back! She did not expect them to return but they have.
‘Goat, come,’ she says. And the goat does.
The bodies of the Usurperkin are hidden away, and the Hammer goes swiftly back to the room, taking off the armour, resuming her place by the window. The goat deposits the stalks in a messy yellow heap and settles down beside them.
She takes one of the shoulder plates and begins to bend, bullying the metal into a better fit. It will be perfect for when her friends arrive.
The Hammer tucks her smile away, putting it on the inside. She is not ready to show them how she cares, not yet. But she knows that she will, someday soon.
About the Author
Peter Newman lives in Somerset with his wife and son. Growing up in and around London, Peter studied Drama and Education at the Central School of Speech and Drama, going on to work as a secondary school drama teacher. He now works as a trainer and Firewalking Instructor. He sometimes pretends to be a butler for the Tea and Jeopardy podcast, which he co-writes, and which has been shortlisted for a Hugo Award.
Also by Peter Newman
The Vagrant
The Malice
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