by Griffith, KF
Chapter 20: The Hand of Hardgrim
“Look who got a shrunken head!” said Elganbok as I joined the other Flaming Goat players at the entrance to the Special Items Vault. “Lemme get a good look at him.”
“Hey, pal! Show some respect,” said the head, “you’re talking to a champion, here.”
I held the head up so that Elganbok could see him better.
“I don’t recognize him,” said Elganbok.
“Come on, really?” said the head. “Flickwit? You know, MVP four years in a row for the Master’s Cup?”
“No way!” said Elganbok. “You were one of my favorite players when I was growin’ up.”
“One of?” said the shrunken head.
“Wow! I didn’t recognize you,” said Elganbok, “you look . . . smaller.”
There was a loud crash from inside the Special Items Vault, and two ogres came flying out of the doorway. They landed directly in front us. They struggled to their feet and dusted themselves off.
“You goin’ back in?” said the first ogre.
“Yeah. I’m just gonna pick something easy, though,” said the second ogre, “the glove’s not worth the fight.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” said the first ogre, “but it sure would be nice to have it.”
“I hope the other guys get out in one piece,” said the second ogre.
The first ogre looked over at us. “Good luck if you try for the glove,” he said, “you’re gonna need it.”
They walked back into the Vault chuckling and limping.
“I wonder what that was about,” said Baerwald.
“Let’s go find out,” said Elganbok.
The Special Items Vault was like a giant junk store. There were piles of stuff everywhere. It looked like somebody had tried to organize everything, though – things seemed to be clumped according to categories: tools seemed to be with tools, clothing seemed to be with clothing, and all of the stuff that was on fire, shooting sparks, or glowing seemed to be in one spot, too. Still, it was really chaotic. Ogres were fighting over objects that I couldn’t even identify.
I watched as two ogres ripped a large piece of fabric in half. They stood staring at each other holding their half of the cloth. “What am I supposed to do with half a camouflage cloak?” said the first ogre as he draped his shred of fabric over his head. “It don’t even cover my noggin’ properly.”
There was another loud crash, and an ogre came flying over a table full of clicking and buzzing knick-knacks and crashed into Baerwald.
Baerwald helped him to his feet. “Are you okay, buddy?”
“It’s that glove,” said the ogre, “nobody can get hold of it.” He was clutching Baerwald’s arm as he spoke.
From where we were standing, we could see across the room to the far side. There was a group of ogres chasing something around on the floor. We couldn’t see what they were chasing because it was low enough to be blocked by the display tables. Whatever it was, it was moving fast. The ogres kept grasping at it and missing. And every few seconds an ogre would be grabbed and yanked down only to be tossed in the air and over the tables away from the thing on the ground. I laughed.
That laugh changed everything. The thing on the ground altered its course and headed straight for us. It plowed its way through every ogre in its path. They went flying to either side as the thing cut a line directly towards us.
As the last ogres standing between us and the thing were thrown aside, my shrunken head shouted. “It’s comin’ for you, kid, run for it!”
But it was too late. It lunged at me.
In a flash it had me by the neck. It moved so fast that I couldn’t get a good look at it. Baerwald and Elganbok reacted swiftly, and in an instant they were trying to pull it off of me.
Whatever it was let go of me for a second, knocked Baerwald away, grabbed me by the throat again, let go again, knocked Elganbok away, and grabbed me by the throat again. It threw me to the ground and held me there.
I clutched at it, trying to pull it away from me. It let go of my neck and slapped my hands away from itself. When it did that, I got a good look at it. It looked like a big metal glove, like something an armored knight would wear.
It flipped quickly and grabbed my right hand and pinned it to the ground beside me. It then tapped my hand, as if it were telling me to keep my hand there. It flipped over to my left hand and did the same thing on that side.
The glove then hopped onto my chest and patted me, like it was reassuring me that everything was going to be okay. It stood there on its fingertips for a second and then flipped itself up into a ‘thumbs up’ pose.
“Aw, man,” said an ogre that was standing nearby, “that’s not fair.”
“You gotta be kiddin’ me,” said another.
I looked around to see that I was surrounded by ogres shaking their heads in disbelief. “Is that what I think it is?’ said the shrunken head as it lay beside me on the floor.
“Yep,” said one of the ogres, “the Hand of Hardgrim.”
“Wow, kid, you should feel honored,” said the head. “That’s one of the most sought-after items in the history of the game.”
“Yeah,” said one of the ogres in the crowd, “we’ve been chasing that thing around all morning. It looks like it’s chosen you over any of us.”
The glove thumped me on the chest and gave the ‘thumbs up’ again.
One of the ogres that had been standing there looking angry suddenly lunged at the glove.
Without any hesitation at all, the glove zipped out of the attackers reach, spun, and slapped him roughly across the face, and then whacked him hard on the back of the head. The attacking ogre fell to the ground and lay there rubbing his head as all the other ogres laughed. The glove jumped up and flew around the circle of ogres surrounding me. In a flurry, it slapped every single ogre standing in the front row of the circle across the face. When it had completed the circle, it pointed itself at each of them one-by-one as if to say that they’d be next if they tried to grab him.
I sat up. “What am I supposed to do with it?”
The glove flew over to me and flipped my right hand up into the air. It then spun itself around and slid itself quickly onto my raised hand. It felt like I was sticking my hand and arm into a tight glove lined with warm beef jerky.
I rolled my eyes and grimaced. “Please tell me that my hand is not inside someone else’s skin.”
“That’s why it’s called the Hand of Hardgrim! Because it’s actually the hand of Hardgrim,” said the shrunken head. “That seems pretty simple to me.”
I tried not to barf.
I flexed my fingers, and even though the glove was massive compared to the size of my hand, it felt really natural. And powerful. I made a fist with the glove and touched it with my left hand. It had an armature of dented, rusted metal of some kind. It looked like it should be really heavy, but it wasn’t. It was definitely old. And even though it felt really creepy knowing that my hand was inside some dead guy’s skin, it actually felt pretty good.
“So what do I do with it?”
Before anyone could answer, the glove leaped to grab the ogre that was standing closest to me. The poor guy didn’t stand a chance. The glove grabbed him, jerked him forward, let go, and then punched him right on the nose. It was like I was along for the ride. I didn’t try to move or do anything, the glove did it all on its own.
“Oh, man! I’m really sorry,” I blurted. “I didn’t do that! I really didn’t do that.”
“I know,” said the ogre that had just been punched. “You’re lucky to have that thing, kid. Make good use of it.”
“I’ll try,” I said.
The glove gave a last thumbs up and everybody went back to selecting their own special items.
The Flaming Goat team gathered back around me.
“You really are lucky to have that,” said Baerwald.
“It’s gonna come in handy, that’s for sure,” said Elganbok.
“A
re you guys going to find something like this,” I asked as I held the glove up and examined it.
“I don’t think there’s anything else here that’s going to be as valuable,” said Baerwald.
“You got lucky, kid, really lucky,” said Elganbok.
“The rest of you should look over near the camouflage cloaks,” said the shrunken head, “they’ve got some really useful hats and headbands.”
We headed towards the cloaks.
Chapter 21: The Scoring Harness
As we stood in line for the next stage of the process, I could hear the gameplay above much better. We were slowly working our way back up the levels from deep underground to just below ground level of the stadium. The floor and walls vibrated with the stomping of the crowd and the action on the playing field. The air felt charged with excitement. Everyone seemed edgy, even the attendants.
“So, what are we doing now?” I asked as we formed a line.
“This is where we get our scoring harnesses,” said Baerwald.
“Otherwise known as your game collar,” said Elganbok.
“I’ve seen the players wearing them when we watched the games on your monitor screens,” I said, “but I never thought to ask what they were for.”
“Are you tellin’ me this kid doesn’t even know what a scorin’ harness is?” said the shrunken head. “You gotta be kiddin’ me! Where are you from, kid? They don’t follow ogreball in your country?”
Baerwald and Elganbok looked amused.
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“It’s complicated,” said the shrunken head in a mocking tone. “Let me explain the scorin’ harness to you then, okay? I’ll go slow so you can keep up.”
The ogre attendant signaled for us to step forward.
“You go first kid,” said the head, “I’ll walk ya through it.”
I stepped up to the attendant, and she whipped out a measuring tape and pulled it around my chest.
“The harness takes all the data it gathers throughout the match and sends it periodically to the communications center of the stadium,” said the head. “That way, it constantly updates all the announcers, the media commentators, scorekeepers, and the medical staff so that they know exactly what’s goin’ on down on the field at all times. It even works if you’re underground.”
“So, you’re never really out of communication even if they can’t actually see you,” said Elganbok.
The attendant finished measuring me and signaled that I should move on to the next station.
The next attendant hefted a thick coil of chains over my head and wound them around my neck. He then used a set of bolt cutters to trim the chains to the right length. Next, he hung a flat thing that looked like some sort of metal frame from the chains. The frame rested on my chest comfortably. He pushed me forward.
“The harness is powered by the stadium’s flogiston generator, so it’ll always be on as long as you’re inside the stadium,” said the shrunken head. “It also links to your goggles so that if you switch them on, it records whatever you see. That way the audience can watch parts of the game from the player’s perspective. The fans love that stuff.”
We stepped up to the next station, and the attendant carried over a round metal box with some metal tubes and dials on it. It was about the size of hat. He slid it onto the metal frame on my chest and screwed it into place. He opened and closed a lid on the front of it, testing it to make sure it worked properly.
“What’s the lid for?” I asked.
“That’s to keep your octuzurl inside your harness,” said the head.
“My what?”
“You’re octozurl!” said the head, “You really aren’t from around here, are you? Anyway, the octozurl somehow processes all the game data that your harness sensors collect and sends it to the communications center. I have no idea how it works. Without the octozurls, we’d have to be hooked up to cables like everythin’ else that sends a signal . . . like the video monitors.”
“Oh, it sounds kind of like radio from where I’m from,” I said. As we approached the next station, I noticed a fishy smell in the air. “What’s that smell?”
“The octozurls.”
The next station was a giant pool filled with splashing, thrashing octopuses being tended by a handful of ogres with long poles with nets on the end of them. The ogres stirred the octopuses around with their poles, keeping them moving.
“And those would be the octozurls,” I said. The thought of having an octopus strapped to my chest had no appeal at all to me. It would be hard enough to focus on the game without squishy, slimy tentacles flapping in my face.
“Yep, pick a good one,” said the head, “the lively ones, the ones that move around a lot, are the best.”
As we stood there watching the octozurls swimming in their tank, Baerwald and Elganbok joined us followed closely by the other Flaming Goat players.
“Are you hungry?” asked Elganbok.
“Not really,” I said, “why?”
“Then pick a small one,” he said. “It’s considered bad manners if you don’t eat the whole thing.”
“What? I thought we were going to put them in our scoring harnesses, not eat them.”
“It’s an old, old tradition to eat your octozurl after the game,” said Bearwald.
“Do you grill them or something?” I asked. “Is there a party after the game?”
“You don’t cook ‘em,” said Elganbok, “that would ruin the flavor. You eat ‘em raw. And they’re delicious. I found mine, right there!” He pointed at one of the smaller ones that was knocking the others around. One of the attendants scooped it up with his net.
I watched as my teammates picked out their octozurls one at a time. The whole time I was watching, I kept seeing one particular octozurl work its way over top of the others until it came to one of the walls. From there it would reach up in an attempt to pull itself out of the tank. At that point in the process, one of the attendants would knock it back down into the tank. This happened over and over again as I watched.
“I want that one,” I pointed, “that one, right there.”
The attendant scooped it up and offered it to me. I’d been watching my teammates, so I knew what to do. I flipped open my scoring harness lid, gently untangled the octozurl from the attendant’s net, and lifted it out. It was slimy and wiggling all over the place when it was in the net, but as soon as my fingers touched it, it became very calm. I scooped it into my harness.
“You’re going to be fine, don’t worry. I’m not going to eat you,” I said as I closed the lid on my scoring harness.
“If you’re not gonna eat it, at least let me,” said the shrunken head.
“Not going to happen,” I said.
“It figures,” said the head.
“There’s always another way to do things,” I said. “We don’t always have to keep doing things the same way forever.”
“So you say,” said the head.
“So I say.”
The giant metal glove reached up and patted the shrunken head reassuringly. “Was that you or Hardgrim?” asked the head.
“I’ll never tell.” I smiled.
There was a loud roar from above, and the crowd started chanting again. “Sounds like somebody just had a good qualifying round,” said Baerwald. Suddenly there was an eerie silence that was followed by terrified screams.
“That doesn’t sound good,” said Elganbok.
Chapter 22: Weapon Selection
By the time we walked the length of the hallway to the next station, the normal sounds had resumed above us. There were cheers and stomping and sounds of battle. That seemed to settle everyone’s nerves.
The ogre attendants ushered us past a giant set of iron doors and into a chamber lined with row after row of racks filled with weapons. There were maces and clubs, slingshots and battle staves, bludgeons and shields, and war hammers. There were lots and lots of war hammers, and they immediately caught my eye.
“Wow!” I said. “So this is where we choose our weapon . . . .”
“I’m headin’ straight for the bludgeons,” said Elganbok. “Meet you all on the other side.” He scurried away.
“I’m thinking a nice traditional giant’s club sounds about right for me,” said Baerwald.
“Man, those hammers look pretty useful,” I said. “But they’re way too big for me. I doubt that I’d even be able to lift one.”
“Don’t worry about that,” said Baerwald. “You’ve got that glove. Hardgrim was one of the strongest players ever. He’ll help you out. Just pick whatever you want. The war hammer’s a good choice for a beginner, though. It’s a good all-around weapon.”
I made my way to the section of racks that were dedicated to war hammers. The hammers were all taller than me, so that made my choice a little more confusing. I reached out and ran my left, ungloved hand over the closest hammer. I tried to lift it from the rack, and it barely moved. It was really heavy. “How am I even going to be able to pick one of these things up?”
In answer to my question the metal glove reached out and ran itself over the selection of war hammers in front of me. It knocked on a couple and quickly settled on a dented and scratched one with dark stains all over it. The glove grabbed it and pulled it easily off the rack. I swung the hammer in the air over my head and brought it smashing down hard onto the floor with a crash. It actually made the floor rumble when it struck. Everybody turned to look at me.
I grinned sheepishly. “Looks like I found my weapon.”
By the time the others had chosen their weapons and gathered at the staging area leading up to the playing field, Brunda and Slipknock and Grelda had joined us.
Brunda looked us over and nodded her approval. “I have to say that I’m impressed. You look like you’re all ready to win some ogreball.” She patted each of the players on the back as she walked around us.
“Even Grady Burr looks ready,” she said as she looked me up and down. “Is that the Hand of Hardgrim?” There was awe in her voice.
“It is,” I said. I raised it up and turned it slowly so that she could examine it.