by Alec Worley
Gerhardt glimpsed downfield as the skaven thrower scooped up the ball in its claws, its teammates bounding towards the Crusaders like an armoured tide. The creatures seemed to multiply as they ran, fanning out across Gerhardt’s blurred vision in twos or threes until the pitch appeared overrun.
The rat-ogre attacked with the persistence of a machine, gurgling with exertion, its jaws awash with foam, claws flashing as it sought to pin its prey, like a cat trying to trap a mouse that didn’t have the sense to run away. Gerhardt caught something in his peripheral vision. He turned instinctively as he brought his spiked kneepad up into the face of a skaven lineman diving at his legs. The blow collapsed the creature’s snout with a sound like a warhammer hitting a basket of eggs. The skaven crumpled to the ground with a congested squeak. The rat-ogre’s gauntlet came down, slashing a line down Gerhardt’s arm, forcing him further back.
As he retreated, Gerhardt could see the stormvermin blitzers clashing with a pair of stout Crusader linemen as two more skaven players scurried past them, streaming like foetid water across the grass into the Crusaders’ half.
Gerhardt took the searing pain in his arm under advisement as the rat-ogre’s claws streaked down yet again, plunging deep into the turf. He drove his studded boot down onto the back of the monster’s hand, pinning its rooted fingers. Sensing the monster’s snout had been lowered to punching level, Gerhardt swung his gauntleted fist into its lower jaw, slamming it aside like a door through which someone had just made a dramatic entrance. But the rat-ogre was too consumed by its frenzy to care and went to plunge its sickly yellow incisors into Gerhardt’s throat.
The blitzer seized the chisel-like teeth near the gum, gripping them in his armoured hand as he struggled to hold the monster’s thrashing head at bay, still pinning its fingers beneath his boot. Gerhardt felt the other set of claws grasping his body. He grabbed two long fingers before they could close around him, twisting them aside with a crack as he drove his weight forward, pressing his face into Manpeeler’s greasy, reeking fur. He shouldered spikes deep into its belly, forcing it off-balance, almost toppling the rat-ogre onto its back. As he grappled with the squirming giant, blood streaming from the gash in his arm, every muscle in his body straining to subdue the murderous fury before him, Gerhardt could hear his conscience tutting, disappointed that he couldn’t have done more to give the poor beast a sporting chance.
A Gutter Runner streaked past him. Gerhardt sensed it moving into the space behind him and knew it would wait there to receive the ball. The skaven thrower was still downfield, sniffing its way left and right, the ball clutched tight in the crook of its scrawny arm as it sought the safest passage through the Crusaders’ line. Gerhardt’s teammates seemed to be drowning in a sea of verminous bodies either side of him, fending off claws and teeth as the frantic skaven struggled to drag the men to the ground.
Gerhardt felt the rat-ogre rip its claws out from beneath his boot as it twisted itself free of his grip. He braced himself to receive its next attack, but the monster only snarled at him, pounding the turf like an angry gorilla demanding to know who ate the last banana. It hissed at the surrounding fans, surrendering momentarily to its feral nature, finally giving up its feeble attempt at restraint as a thoroughly bad job.
The Crusaders’ fans cheered with renewed vigour as the justly named blitzer Jurgen the Upright crashed through a wall of skaven and charged at their exposed ball-carrier like a maddened bull. The thrower froze as Jurgen dived at him, but somehow managed to slip from between his hands like a revoltingly hairy bar of soap. It scampered away, leaving the blitzer to perform the even more impressive feat of using his face to plough through several yards of turf.
Manpeeler seemed to have forgotten Gerhardt was there. The blitzer sensed another accurate strike at its broken jaw could see the creature stretchered off the field, but that thrower was streaking towards a gap where several Crusaders lay sprawled.
Gerhardt left the rat-ogre to snarl at the crowd, leaping over its tail as it wriggled after him like a questing tentacle. As he ran, he focused on the ball cradled in the arms of the skaven thrower, visualising himself stripping it from Manpeeler’s grasp and tossing it into the hands of Felix the Chaste, who now sprinted alongside him towards the skaven end zone.
The skaven thrower had seen them. It was flinching in a zig-zag, trying to distract Gerhardt as he bore down on it like a meteorite. The skaven’s wriggling course made Gerhardt feel suddenly seasick. His skull buzzed and his vision blurred once again. The skaven shimmered into triplets. Gerhardt squinted as he picked one, then snatched the ball.
He seized the blurred oblong and tore it from the skaven’s grip, tossing it without thinking into the waiting mitts of the catcher beside him. Felix gave a strangled yelp, letting the thing bounce between in his hands as if it were red-hot, before finally dropping it on the grass. Gerhardt peered down at the ball, his head spinning, dimly wondering why the referee hadn’t blown the whistle for a fumble and why the ball appeared to possess whiskers and a startled expression.
He turned and saw the headless body of the skaven thrower stumble several more paces before collapsing, releasing the ball into the paws of the waiting gutter runner. Gerhardt could have sworn the foul creature winked at him before scuttling past a lonely Crusaders lineman and into the end zone to score.
The referee blew the whistle and the skaven fans erupted into a squall of delighted squeaks, a sound that made Gerhardt’s battered brain feel like it was being nibbled. The screen of the Cabaltron mounted above the players’ tunnel filled with the image of the gutter runner gyrating in a manner that was as enthusiastic as it was horrifying.
Gerhardt clutched his head, trying to stop the stadium from whirling around him as he scanned the stands for Sister Bertilda. His vision cleared, but his heart clouded at the sight of the priestess sobbing into her habit.
‘And there’s the equaliser, Jim.’
‘And there’s Gerhardt looking very unhappy for failing to pick up that ball. He’s not going to make that concussion any better by beating his head on the ground like that.’
‘I’ve never seen the Crusaders so demoralised. They’re not even applauding the other team’s touchdown.’
‘I doubt the odds of their winning this final will do much to raise their spirits either, Bob. The Crusaders may have the skill, but I’m afraid the Rats have the numbers.’
‘That reminds me, Jim. Did you know a ratman can squeeze through a hole the size of a gold piece?’
‘Is that so?’
‘Yep. Kweequik the Kontorted of the Skavenblight Scramblers once proved it by squeezing his entire body inside a football. He would live to see his name in the record books too, if the team’s rat-ogre hadn’t used the ball for kicking practice. Hur! Hur! Hur!’
Those smelling salts had certainly cleared Gerhardt’s head, although the apothecary had been rather short with him for drinking the entire bottle. At least the number of opponents he could see now corresponded with the number of opponents actually on the pitch. Not that it made much difference; the skaven still dominated the field with their speed and superior numbers.
The scoreline remained two-two and as the Crusaders concluded what was shaping up to be the final drive of the game, Gerhardt was flailing on the line of scrimmage like a man on fire. Three skaven clawed at his armour, thrashing him with their tails, the urinary stench of their bodies cloying as he fought to shake them off. One of them struggled with his legs, trying to buckle his knees and probably wondering why Gerhardt wasn’t falling over the way most humans did when you gnawed at their hamstrings.
The pain in Gerhardt’s legs was nothing compared to the guilt he felt in his heart. His gluttony for punishment had lost his team the lead, causing him to betray his pledge to help win the game and save Sister Bertilda’s orphanage. Until the priestess had written to him, explaining her desperate plight, Gerhardt had never believed that
victory could be more important than humility. He had never before given a thought to how his acts of penitence might serve as anything other than a glorious inspiration to the rest of the team. The other players certainly never did anything to stop him, although Coach Gutmann had once suggested they were just being polite.
The coach himself seemed to take the skaven’s equaliser rather well, although he had done that thing where his eyelids twitched like they were playing ping-pong. As he directed his players back into position, he had given Gerhardt strict instruction to hold the centreline and tie up as many skaven players as possible. But it turned out the skaven were just as intent on tying up Gerhardt, smothering him like a fur coat that had seen better days.
The other Crusaders remained mired in a persistent scrum. White-armoured bodies clashing and knitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the sickly green of the skaven, both sides smearing the bloody grass to mud beneath their feet as they heaved and growled, spiked fists and iron-capped boots striking here and there, attempting to break the deadlock. The Crusaders had formed a cage around the ball-carrier, Felix the Chaste, and were trying to grind their way upfield, but more and more skaven were charging into the fray, inching the Crusaders back.
Gerhardt felt another surge of guilt to know that he was the cause of his team’s plight. He had abstained from penance for so long, his hunger for it had grown so acute, that he had forgotten what Bertilda had taught him: that his actions had consequences for the rest of the team. Now his best chance of rectifying his mistake was to trust Coach Gutmann, who had forbidden him from moving out of position, and made sure that Gerhardt understood this didn’t mean gluing or nailing himself in place.
A filthy pink tail lashed around Gerhardt’s face. He bit down on it without thinking, which was probably just as well. One of the skaven screeched in pain as it leaped from his body as though electrified. Gerhardt grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and hurled the creature to the ground, freeing his hand to tear away the second skaven and fling it on top of the third still clawing at his legs. The creatures squirmed to their feet as Gerhardt staggered back, panting, wondering for the first time in his career whether he might be bleeding too much.
The timer on the Cabaltron was ticking down the final five minutes of the second half, beyond which play would continue into sudden-death overtime. With fresh substitutes and an offensive drive, the nimble ratmen would secure the win for sure.
The three skaven leaped at him with a collective squeal. He crouched as they crashed into him, feeling their spikes clash like swords upon his armoured shoulders. But the dexterous creatures had ducked lower than he anticipated, all three clawing at his legs. As he fought for a stable footing, his boot slithered along a patch of mud and he fell face-first into the muck. His squeaking attackers threw themselves on top of him, pinning his shoulder-pads, making it difficult for him to rise even if one of them wasn’t jumping up and down on the back of his head. Mud oozed like worms up Gerhardt’s nostrils, while his ears filled with squeals of skaven laughter.
The crowd roared and the beating ceased. Gerhardt managed to pull his head up out the mud with a slurp, blinking away the filth to see Jurgen the Upright trample one of the stormvermin underfoot as he raced forward. Felix the Chaste ran after him, head down, clinging to the ball.
The Crusaders’ cage had broken the skaven line, but Skrut Manpeeler had been positioned downfield, ready to welcome any such intruders. Gerhardt could see the feral monster already bounding towards the Crusaders players, its broken jaw wagging, arms flailing excitedly, as if it couldn’t decide which of these two fleshy gifts it wanted to unwrap first.
The goblin referee stood nearby, pretending to examine the hourglass around his neck as the cheating skaven forced Gerhardt to return his attention to the dirt. Gerhardt knew that Jurgen and Felix stood little chance against the ravenous rat-ogre. Guilt weighed upon him as heavily as his own armour, that and the three skaven players currently employing it as a trampoline. If he were to help both his team and Sister Bertilda, and absolve himself of his own sins against them, he would need to go against Coach Gutmann’s instructions and think for himself. Like a spark struck from a tinderbox, three pairs of skaven feet struck an idea from the flint of Gerhardt’s brain.
Still pinned inside his armour, Gerhardt tensed the slabs of muscle across his back, tightening the straps of his shoulder-pads. He felt the buckles snap as the skaven stamped on him again. The creatures were so focused on their efforts to pound Gerhardt’s head into the earth like a tent peg that they failed to notice the blitzer wriggle free of his helmet and shoulder-pads. By the time they realised he had vacated his armour, a shirtless Gerhardt had smashed into their startled midst.
One of them managed to claw at his legs as it was dragged across the grass, pulling what was left of Gerhardt’s britches down to his ankles. A lesser player would have tripped, stumbling over his own drawers, felled like the world’s most undignified tree. But Gerhardt the Penitent instead bounded into the air, kicking off his boots and slipping free of his trousers with the grace of an exotic dancer shedding her final veil.
‘Whoah! It looks like we got a streaker, Jim! I can see the referee calling for his tranquiliser crossbow.’
‘That’s no streaker, Bob! It’s Gerhardt! And he’s snorting mud out of his nostrils as he makes a blistering run down the wide zone towards his teammates!’
Gerhardt saw Jurgen attempt to swerve a flanking tackle from one of the skaven, but the creature caught him around the waist, ramming him towards the fans. A mob of orc hooligans surged forwards to receive him, but threw up their hands in disappointment as Jurgen crashed into the advertising boards. According to a tradition most Blood Bowl officials were too afraid to oppose, any player shoved off the pitch and into the stands was subject to whatever penalty the supporters could think to administer at the time. Luckily for the players, most fans were too dim-witted to think of delivering anything more than a severe beating, although Chaos fans were justly feared for their terrifying creativity.
Undaunted by the loss of his wingman, Felix kept running for the skaven end zone, racing perilously close to the crowds on his left as the rat-ogre charged towards him from the right.
Gerhardt sprinted faster than he thought possible, his bare feet a wondrous blur, gobbling up the distance between himself and the frenzied rat-ogre as it finally pounced upon Felix. The catcher managed to dart backwards and the monster drove a pulverising fist into the turf where he had been standing, forcing Felix back along the advertising boards. The orcs surged forwards in anticipation while Felix stood seemingly transfixed by the sight of the rat-ogre’s gaping jaws.
Gerhardt bore down on Manpeeler, feeling invigorated by the whistling of both the fans and the refreshing breeze rushing through his loincloth. He was thrilled by the thought of meeting his foe on gloriously equal terms, every advantage surrendered, prepared to pit naked skill against raw fury, two forces matched as perfectly as light and dark.
Gerhardt leaped, distracting the rat-ogre as it went to swing its claws at the helpless ball-carrier. The giant’s shining green eyes registered something like confusion seconds before its vision was blotted out by an expanse of forehead that descended into its snout with a symphony of splintering cracks. A number of dwarfs and norsemen in the crowd completely forgot themselves, swooning like schoolgirls in admiration of such a magnificently delivered headbutt, a perfectly placed ‘Khazad kiss’ that shattered the monster’s muzzle, slamming its head backwards, momentum launching its enormous body over the advertising board and dropping it in a dazed heap surrounded by several pairs of orcish boots.
Skrut Manpeeler disappeared beneath a mob of greenskins as Gerhardt regained his senses, making a mental note to ask the apothecary whether he should be concerned that his head now rattled like a moneybox when he shook it. Felix was streaking towards the skaven end zone with two skaven scurrying far behind him as the timer on the Cabaltr
on winked towards its final zero.
Felix planted the ball over the line a split-second before the whistle blew and the stadium exploded like a volcano full of confetti. Cannons blasted shimmering streamers overhead as Gerhardt watched the scoreboard flip three-two in favour of his team. The Bright Crusaders and their fans went berserk, which for them meant respectfully applauding the losing team.
As the ogre security guards dragged away the skaven players, who continued squeaking threats at the referee as they were escorted off the pitch, Gerhardt searched the stands for Sister Bertilda. She was desperately trying to restrain her orphan charges. The youngsters had apparently become so overwhelmed with excitement they had joined in the orcs’ assault upon the fallen rat-ogre, hammering at the unconscious monster with their crutches. Their caps and scarves had fallen away to reveal faces bright with glee. Gerhardt took a moment to assure himself that orphans could indeed be green. It probably meant they were unwell or something. He stared, intrigued. Apparently, their condition had caused them to sprout long pointed ears and teeth that gleamed like rows of needles as they cackled. Gerhardt laughed to himself. It was as if someone had paid a bunch of goblins to dress up as orphans. He paused, the thought lingering in his head like an unwelcome smell.
Sister Bertilda was now hoofing up the stairs towards the exit, hitching up her robes to reveal a pair of impressively hairy legs. Maybe she was desperate to use the toilet. Maybe she had forgotten the orphans’ medication. Gerhardt vaulted over the advertising boards and dashed up the stairs after her, keen to offer assistance. The applauding fans tried to avert their eyes at the sight of the near-naked blitzer streaking up the steps beside them. Sister Bertilda tripped and something tumbled out of the front of her habit. Gerhardt saw a buxom pair of turnips bounce past him. He tried to tell himself that maybe she had brought a packed lunch, but his usually indomitable ignorance was already facing a rare defeat by the forces of reason.