The Hammer and the Goat. Peter Newman

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СКАЧАТЬ the Usurper lets her go, there is no girl that the child recognises, a newborn monster in her place.

      The screaming of the other children changes pitch in appreciation of the spectacle, becoming frenzied, frantic.

      Around and around the Usurper goes, tagging children, making them into half-breeds, their souls no longer fully human. The transformation takes a harder toll on some than others, but all survive, a growing gaggle of Usurperkin.

      Through it all, the child does not run. Despite the strangeness of it, she recognises this for what it is, that she is changing one set of owners for another. And when her turn comes, she is waiting, and she is angry.

      The Usurper looms over her, its small wings flickering with pleasure.

      She glares up at it, hands on hips and asks a question: ‘Why?’

      The Usurper’s clawed hand catches her face, puncturing it under the chin and behind one ear. Essence flares like a thin mist from its nostrils, reaching out, infecting, an answer of sorts.

      The child begins to change.

      Forcing her eyes open again, the Hammer picks up the coin, tossing it repeatedly until breath becomes regular. She squeezes it in a massive fist, focusing on the reassuring feel of metal.

      Calm again, it becomes clear that something is wrong. ‘Goat?’

      A quick study of the room reveals nothing. She calls louder this time but there is no answering bleat. This in itself does not mean anything, as the goat does not always deign to answer, but the Hammer’s face folds into a scowl.

      She waits a while, picks at some more food, managing to smear nutrient jelly on both cheeks. Some water is drunk, the coin is tossed a few more times, dropped once.

      She stops. ‘Goat?’ Her head is tipped to one side, listening. There are deep voiced squeaks and the whisper of small feet on smooth walls, but no goats.

      With a grunt, she gets up. There is some pain but she is used to pain. Her wounds have already started healing but the feeling of weakness remains. Even infernally blessed bodies need time to recover. She knows she should wait, rest. Harm and the man said so. She looks at the dust collecting, fuzzy, on each chunk of the broken door. Hoof prints have been captured there. ‘Goat?’

      Ignoring the way the world seems to wobble slightly with each movement, the Hammer walks out of the room. It is the first time she has been without her armour in years.

      Outside, the air is cool, tickling exposed skin. She stretches out her arms, letting it play under armpits and across gaps in her wiggling fingers.

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