The Hammer and the Goat

The Hammer and the Goat
Peter Newman

The first short story set in Peter Newman’s incredible world of THE VAGRANT.'It's a story that grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and refused to let go…' Fantasy Faction

Published by

HarperVoyager an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperVoyager 2016

Copyright © Peter Newman 2016

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Peter Newman asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008180218

Version: 2016-12-20

Table of Contents

Cover (#u56056c98-d3c4-5bcd-820a-05c444e59ff0)

Title Page (#u23aaf1c5-37e7-5a9b-a7c5-0d7677f5f050)

Copyright (#u0d00a81f-f887-586c-a1a3-f2c35c1ac5d4)

Author’s Note (#ue39cf6ef-9143-5f55-9908-31522fd24f79)

The Hammer and the Goat (#uce05e638-c4e9-5222-bb15-daffb45a286f)

About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)

Also by Peter Newman (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#u38f6c8d6-265c-5ec6-8eb2-48168f76b609)

I don’t know about you, but I hate reading things out of order. So, in case you’re like me, I wanted to say that this story takes place parallel to the events in The Vagrant and is best enjoyed after you’ve read that.

I have a lot of love for The Hammer that Walks and, despite myself, the goat. It’s been a real treat to be able to revisit these characters and give them more space to play. Thank you for coming along.

The Hammer and the Goat (#u38f6c8d6-265c-5ec6-8eb2-48168f76b609)

The Hammer that Walks wakes up, her mouth dry. It is often that way after the dreams come. The Hammer’s dreams are not the same as other people’s, more like memories viewed over and over. A silver-green face stretched wide, split by horns, a stub-winged shadow that looms over her, holding her fears in one hand, her anger in the other, making them one.

Making her.

It is true to say that she has not seen the Usurper for almost a year now, but it is also true to say that she sees the Usurper every day. That its imprint is seared so deeply into her essence that she cannot help but see it whenever she closes her eyes.

Sweating, she tries to sit up. Underneath fresh bandages, scabs pull tight on her skin, blotches of brown marking her flesh from collarbone to toe, freshly plugged holes where rivets once sat. She is not used to feeling weak, does not like it. As with most obstacles, the Hammer tries to fight, growling at her new opponent: herself.

The struggle is brief, painful, but at the end of it the Hammer is upright. She paws the area immediately around her, growing more frantic until her thick fingers find the coin.

Aware of the tremble in her limbs, the Hammer moves carefully, curling her right index finger as if there were a gun in her hand, invisible, and placing the coin on top. She touches her thumbnail to the underside of her finger, and makes some final adjustments. Fixated on her work, she does not notice the tip of her tongue peeking between lips.

The coin is tossed and the Hammer looks up, hopeful. It wobbles as it spins, humming softly. She cannot make it sing the way the man does but even the hint of song is enough to bring her blunt teeth out of hiding.

For the few moments it is airborne and alive, the coin distracts her, and the Usurper’s presence feels further away. Three blinks of relief before it lands, smacking softly into her palm.

Then, almost immediately, the sense of rage returns, knotting muscles in her shoulders. Quickly, she places the coin on her finger, tossing it, watching, enraptured, savouring each second of distraction before catching it, tossing it again.

Her lack of finesse begins to irk, the coin not quite resonant enough to satisfy. Movements become more hurried, the need to make song all-consuming.

But the Hammer is tired. The coin slips through her green fingers like water, clattering on the floor.

The Hammer hangs her head and moans. The man can make the coins sing. He should be here! The one called Harm with soft voice and softer bones should be here too. They claim to be her friends but they have left her here, alone.

An indignant bleat makes her look up.

The Hammer is not alone. The goat remains, watching her with dark eyes, uncharacte‌ristically kind.

‘Goat,’ says the Hammer.

The goat trots forward, allowing the Hammer to stroke her flank. The two share a little food and some water, provisions left by the two men. Are they truly friends, she wonders, then shakes her head. They will not come back.

The room she sits in is sparsely furnished, with a dusty, curving window, a puffy plasglass blister on the side of the ageing tower. There are many rooms identical in size and shape to hers, the people that lived here evicted by oversized rats and tainted spiders, skin-hungry.

Aside from provisions and the smell of the Hammer’s blood, the room has few possessions. The Hammer’s armour is stacked in a corner. It needs cleaning and reworking, and a new way to hold to her body. A scowl develops on the Hammer’s face, an indicator of thought. Plans to manipulate the shape of the plates form in her brain while her hands make fists, clenching around the handles of tools she does not have.

Unimpressed with this display, the goat walks to the door.

‘Goat.’