Da Bank Job

by Andy Hall

  The orc and humie butted helmets in the middle of the scrum. Both were bent forwards with shoulders planted firmly into the opposing players.

  ‘Don’t worry, greeny, this’ll be over for you soon enough,’ said Griff through gritted teeth.

  ‘Not likely, pigeon-’ead, we need to make dis last until full time!’ Griff looked bemused at Brobrag’s response. As if that wasn’t the kind of trash talk he’d expected from the orc. Brobrag used the star player’s momentary confusion to punch the smug git in his face. Oberwald spat out a tooth, and looked thunderous. He thrust downwards with his shoulders and stepped back, Brobrag’s momentum carried him forwards and the blood-stained turf came rushing up to meet him. Without breaking stride, Oberwald stepped on the back of the orc’s prone form and used it as a springboard to leap into the air. As if preordained by Nuffle himself, at the zenith of Griff’s leap the ball flew into view, and he plucked it out of the sky. The Reavers captain landed far beyond the Big ’Uns’ defensive line and then ran. The star player easily dodged the few half-hearted tackles by the remaining orc defence and jogged into the end zone. The crowd went wild. Brobrag got upright and looked back to see a triumphant Oberwald staring straight back at him. The first touchdown had been scored less than a minute after the starting whistle.

  Fingurs was in the strangest vault he’d ever been in. Not that he’d been in any vaults before, but where was all the shiny stuff? They were underground, which he had expected, but they were in a long, square corridor of yellow stone covered in vines and other strange-looking plants. He wasn’t the only one that looked confused. The rest of his ‘away team’ also seemed a bit lost as to where they were. Fingurs couldn’t remember their names, or even if he’d asked for them in the first place, and so had decided to call them by their instantly recognisable feature.

  ‘Oi, One-eye, where’s dis treasure?!’ Fingurs asked. The orc just gave him a shrug back. And then lost his head. A thin silver blade screamed out of a horizontal gap in the wall at head height and lopped off One-eye’s bonce before the black orc could blink. The head rolled past Fingurs, who spun around to see Broken-toof looking guilty, his foot resting on a sunken flagstone.

  ‘Soz,’ he said, and carefully retracted the offending leg.

  ‘By Gork’s collected toe-jam, wot woz dat!?’ shouted Fingurs to no one in particular.

  ‘Booby trap,’ said Angry-git. ‘Bet dis place is full of ’em. Careful where ya tread.’

  Fingurs wasn’t happy. His place was on the Blood Bowl field, not here in this dark place, following a dungeon corridor to Nuffle knew where.

  ‘This way…’ Fingurs heard a whispery voice. It seemed to come from just behind his ear. ‘Move it!’ said the whispery, but now clearly impatient, voice. Fingurs gestured to Broken-toof, Angry-git and Nasty-git.

  ‘Better go where da voice sez,’ said the black orc, cautiously moving down the corridor. The others looked at each other and followed.

  ‘Wot voice?’ asked Broken-toof to Angry and Nasty.

  The Big ’Uns were already down two-zero, but losing didn’t bother Brobrag that much – after all, they’d lost every game in the previous season. No, what was troubling him more were the two casualties they’d already sustained. NAF rules were pretty flexible about how many players a team could field. There was a maximum of eleven per side – that was literally written in stone, as transcribed by the very first NAF commissioner, Roze-el, back in the day, and strictly enforced. As to fielding fewer than Nuffle’s sacred number, well, it wasn’t advisable but not technically against the rules. As long as you had players, you could play. However, as Brobrag knew all too well, you needed at least three players on the line of scrimmage at kick-off. If the team couldn’t do that then they’d forfeit the game no matter how much time was left on the clock. While Brobrag’s squad was large enough for now, if he kept losing players at this rate they’d be forfeiting before they even got to half time, leaving Fingurs and the loot stranded in the vault.

  ‘The Big ’Uns are going to receive,’ said a voice over the sound system. It wasn’t Jim Johnson’s, this announcer had a much deeper, metallic and troubling timbre. ‘If they don’t receive Nuffle’s help, I know a few gods they can pray to for aid, hahaha!’

  ‘Err, thank you, Lord Borak, I look forward to more of your comments throughout the game. Bob should go on vacation more often.’

  The Big ’Uns had thirty seconds before the ref blew his whistle, so the captain called his players together for a huddle.

  ‘We’re gettin’ butchered out dere,’ moaned Grappa.

  ‘Shut it!’ growled Brobrag. ‘We need to keep playin’ and dose gits just want us off the field as fast as possible. We’re green and mean, we should be da ones smashin’ da humies ta bits, not da other way around. We gotta keep da ball out in our possession.’ Grappa tried to speak, but Brobrag wasn’t in the mood for more of his moaning and so carried on. ‘Pick it up, don’t pass it, we’ll form a cage around the carrier and we’ll march up the field real slow and steady…’

  The ref whistled.

  ‘Touchdown!’ shouted Lord Borak, his voice reverberating around the stadium. Brobrag looked up from the huddle and saw a Reavers’ catcher in their end zone.

  ‘Wot the–’

  ‘You were yabberin’ too long, boss. Da Reavers kicked and then grabbed the ball while yoo were explainin’ da plan. I did try and tell yoo.’

  ‘Right, next play, we do dat plan.’

  ‘Wot plan?’ asked a line-orc.

  Brobrag slapped him across the face.

  Fingurs, Broken-toof and Angry-git stared down into the dark, fathomless hole that had swallowed Nasty-git two minutes ago.

  ‘I fink ’e’s ded,’ said Broken-toof. Fingurs thought so too, and motioned them to move on. This left just the three of them to find the loot and get it back before the game ended. The black orc knew full well he wasn’t the sharpest spike on the Blood Bowl ball, yet he sensed things were not going to plan.

  ‘Dis voice you ’earin’,’ said Broken-toof. ‘Sure it’s not tryin’ to lead us away from da shiny stuff?’

  ‘Nah, it keeps gettin’ mad if we stop an’ talk or I go another way. It wants da gold as much as we do.’

  Broken-toof was about to question the black orc’s logic when they came to a door at the end of the corridor. It was made of stout-looking wood with metal hinges and handle. A dungeon door if ever you saw one, thought Fingurs, as he tried the handle. The door didn’t budge. Broken-tooth pushed him out the way, and produced his jemmy. The orc worked at the hinge and then around the handle, and with a final push the door swung open and the three greenskins stumbled into a large, dimly lit chamber. It was a large square space, the roof made of different rectangular levels jutting inwards as they went up into the dark void, the only entrance – or exit – being the one the orcs had just walked through. Looking up, the would-be robbers could not even see the ceiling – they were at the base of a tower or some tall building. In the very middle of the room three chests sat upon plinths, each bathed in a cone of light.

  ‘Shinies!’ shouted Angry-git.

  Before Fingurs could stop him, the orc ran forwards into the light and tried to open the chest in the middle. There was a flash, like lightning, and smoking bones clattered to the floor where the angry-looking orc had stood seconds before. The central chest was gone.

  ‘Idiots!’ screamed the disembodied voice, although only Fingurs could hear it.

  ‘We ain’t across the road in the treasury, are we?’ said Fingurs.

  ‘You think?’ asked the voice, sarcasm dripping from both icy syllables.

  ‘Well, da treasury building ain’t got no tower,’ said Broken-toof, actually making a good point, although Fingurs had been talking to the voice.

  ‘I need what’s in the left-hand chest, the others are just decoys. Get me the item in the chest and I’ll guide
you back out.’

  As much as Fingurs hated the voice, he thought the best course of action was to follow its directions so he could get back to the ladz as quickly as possible. Now, if only he knew his left from his right…

  The Big ’Uns were receiving. Not unexpected, as the team that concedes a touchdown always receives the ball at the following kick-off, and the orcs were down three-zero. The ball flew into the Big ’Uns half from the steel-shod boot of Jacob von Altdorf. Brobrag was relieved to see Grappa scoop up the free ball without too much fuss. As planned, four line-orcs surrounded the carrier, with Leg-cruncha herded to the rear. The formation slowly advanced to Brobrag’s position where he took his place at the head of the formation. There was now a cage of green flesh and spiked armour surrounding the ball. Even a team as good as the Reavers would struggle to break through.

  ‘I can’t think of anything more dull than a slow-moving cage play, Jim,’ said Lord Borak across the speaker system, ‘and I’ve dated daemonettes.’

  ‘I’d have thought daemonettes are anything but boring. They strike me as quite… feisty?’

  ‘Nope, they’re all goffs. They just sit there and mope. Tedious. Talking of which, the Big ’Uns haven’t advanced a yard since our witty banter started, Jim. They better get a move on!’

  Brobrag didn’t care one cold squig-fart what the commentators thought of his play. He was quite pleased, they had kept possession for well over a minute now, and the Reavers had backed off. All they had to do now was run down the clock, giving the vault-orcs time enough to collect the loot and get back. Brobrag managed a smile – maybe it would all work out after all. Then an axe embedded itself into his helmet. Swiftly followed by another that thudded into the ground between his legs, just as one of the line-orcs collapsed, an axe wrapped in a Reavers pennant lodged in his gut.

  ‘It’s da fans!’ called Grappa. ‘Dey ain’t ’appy!’

  The cage was getting pelted with more and more missiles, some less lethal than others, noted Brobrag, as a bottle of Bloodweiser went streaming past to clonk a line-orc between the eyes. Across the field, the orc captain saw the Reavers holding back, all sporting smug faces, happy to let the fans do the work.

  ‘Da voice sez it’z dat one,’ said Fingurs, and flashed Broken-toof a smile. Fingurs rarely smiled, so the effect was more unnerving than the black orc intended. Broken-toof looked suspicious.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Dat one!’ pointed Fingurs at one of the remaining chests.

  ‘Go on den,’ said Broken-toof. ‘Get da shinies.’

  ‘Dat’s yer job. I led us ’ere.’

  ‘You fink I’m stoopid? I’ve seen Dungeonbowl, I kno what ’appens when you open a chest in a dungeon!’

  ‘Fine, I’ll grab da loot, but if you want a share you’ll ’ave to take it from me.’ Fingurs approached one of the chests to the side of the now empty central plinth.

  ‘Oi!’ Broken-toof rushed up to the black orc. ‘You were pointing at the other chest before. Now yah gonna take da loot, yoo go ta dis one – da proper box! Nice try, but I told ya, I ain’t stoopid.’

  Broken-toof pushed Fingurs backwards, and lifted the lid of the right-hand chest. The orc’s smoking bones fell to the floor. Fingurs looked at the remaining chest.

  ‘So, dat’s left.’

  The cage formation had made it to the line of scrimmage, the Reavers’ fans jeering and lobbing various detritus all the way. Brobrag had lost two of his line-orcs under the onslaught.

  ‘Are there any halflings in that formation?’ Lord Borak wondered aloud. ‘They’re taking so bloody long it’s like they’re on an endless quest.’

  As the Big ’Uns staggered into the opposing half, the Reavers made their play. A fireball shot out from the sidelines, taking down a line-orc from the flank of the cage.

  ‘The Reavers’ team wizard is on excellent form,’ said Jim.

  ‘Unlike the Big ’Uns’ new magic-user,’ countered Lord Borak. ‘Our field-side reporter say he’s stuck in the dugout, waving his arms around and speaking in tongues like a skink who’s had too much sun. Looks like another bad investment by the Big ’Uns’ team captain.’

  The spell had left the orcs in disarray, then the Reavers linemen tackled from the flank, while the Mighty Zug strode forwards and butted Brobrag right on the bridge of his nose. Orcs have thick skulls compared to humies, but Zug was a legend for a reason. The orc captain went down like a sack of squigs, creating the opening Griff needed. He wrestled the ball from Grappa and dodged past the troll before the beast could even register it. Within seconds the ball was back in the greenskins’ end zone. Four-zero. The ref blew his annoying whistle again – it was the end of the half.

  ‘Oh dear me. I think it’s all over for the Big ’Uns. They’d need a miracle to come back from this,’ said Jim.

  ‘My gods give out miracles like candy, although this would be a big ask no matter how many souls you offered. To be blunt, they suck, Jim – even worse than you.’

  Brobrag stumbled down the steps into the dugout. His teammates followed.

  ‘We’re screwed!’ shouted a line-orc.

  ‘No, we ’ave been screwed. Those fixers set us up,’ said Grappa, his anger rousing the others. Brobrag smelt a mutiny. He heard a snigger from behind and looked around to see the wizard, eyes closed, arms waving around like an insane conductor towards the portal in the far wall.

  ‘Wot you laughing at?’

  ‘Oh, just how your teammates are obviously considering a change at the top. I love change, don’t you?’

  Brobrag growled. ‘Where’s Fingurs and da others?’

  Chanzeemitt opened his eyes and gave an involuntary screech that made one of the team gobbos jump. ‘Sorry, comes with the territory.’

  ‘Yer nutz!’

  ‘No, not nuts, just unstable, there’s a subtle difference.’

  Before Brobrag could answer back, the wizard spoke again, this time in a different voice.

  ‘The orc’s right, you’re crazier than Fungus the Loon! That’s why I had to stop you, that’s why I paid to have the Flesh Hounds play your halfling patsies!’

  ‘What?’ shouted Chanzeemitt in the first voice. ‘You did this?’

  ‘Of course I did, I hate you! Oh, look here comes another of your puppets now.’ Fingurs shot through the portal, which fizzled out behind him. He was clutching something in his fist.

  ‘Give me that!’ demanded the wizard in his first, screeching voice.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Mr Ger, descending the dugout steps with Mr Bil closely in tow.

  ‘You gits! Wot you doin’ ’ere?’ yelled Brobrag.

  ‘Protecting our investment. We want to know why you aren’t playing against the halflings as originally arranged.’

  ‘So, you ain’t got nuffin to do wiv dis?’

  ‘No. We wanted da loot in the vault as much as yoo. We were gonna double-cross ya when you ’ad the dosh. So, not us, boss… Well, we may have put a bet–’ Mr Bil was hastily nudged in the face by Mr Ger’s elbow.

  ‘You bumbling fools! You are puppets to be played with by greater minds than you are capable of comprehending,’ said the wizard. He looked directly at Fingurs and gave an involuntary laugh. ‘Now, give me it, or those scorched bones you saw in the Lost Temple will be nothing compared to my wrath!’

  Just then, the elf official stuck his head over the dugout wall and treated the team to his most condescending smile.

  ‘On the field!’ he sneered.

  Everybody in the dugout turned to look at Fingurs.

  ‘’Ave the bloody thing, ya nut job. Dis whole fing ’as been a waste of time.’ Fingurs uncurled his fist to reveal a silver whistle.

  ‘Yes-yes, hand it over!’ said Chanzeemitt. Then the wizard howled like a direwolf, and the second voice sneaked out.

  ‘No, keep it away! Don’
t give it to him-me!’

  ‘Time!’ shouted the elf ref from above and blew his own whistle.

  ‘Yeah, time ta get our butts kicked!’ moaned Grappa again.

  Brobrag had reached his limit. He gave out a guttural roar that silenced everyone in the dugout and a good portion of the fans in the stadium above. Ever since he had given up raiding and started this Blood Bowl team he had been under the cosh, pushed, played and manipulated. But no more! He was an orc, and a bloody good one at that, it was time for him to do the pushing! He stepped between the wizard and Fingurs, grabbing the whistle out of the black orc’s hand. Mr Bil had wheedled his way close to the action and looked at the whistle in awe, even as Brobrag waved it around in agitation.

  ‘Wot’s dis?’ he growled, holding it up.

  ‘It’s nuffin boss, I blew it on the way back through dat vault. It didn’t do diddly squat,’ said Fingurs from behind.

  ‘If you don’t give me that whistle, I’ll spend the rest of my days heaping humiliation upon humiliation on your pathetic team, orc. You think this performance is embarrassing? Well, wait till you see what an agent of Tzeentch can do when he has your full attention–’

  Brobrag grabbed the yabbering humie by the throat and squeezed. There was an evil glint back in his eye that hadn’t been there since before last season. The wizard choked and spluttered and ineffectively tried to prise the orc’s hand from his fragile throat.

  ‘I want to talk to da other one.’ The wizard thrashed about. ‘The second git you ’ave in that mangled brain of yours, send ’im up,’ rumbled Brobrag. The mage seemed to calm momentarily and Brobrag relaxed his fingers slightly. ‘Talk!’

  ‘We’re both followers of the Great Conspirator. There was a rivalry, so our master thought it best to… merge us. Having two of us in here, it’s made us a bit… unstable. The other one, my soul-rival, was trying to get that whistle. He couldn’t enter the Lost Temple himself – another of our lord’s caveats – so he engineered this situation.’

  ‘Wot’s so special about dis whistle? Every ref has one.’