The Hammer and the Goat. Peter Newman
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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