[Blood Bowl 01] - Blood Bowl

by Matt Forbeck - (ebook by Undead)

  Slick slid from the pony’s back as if dismounting from a boulder. Then he turned to Dunk with a grin. “It’s good to see you again, son. I was afraid you’d gotten away from me,” he said.

  Dunk motioned for the halfling to sit down on a patch of ground near the fire. “You’re not after me, too, are you?” he asked. He eyed Slick warily despite himself.

  The halfling laughed. “I don’t think so,” he said, a merry twinkle in his eye. “At least not for killing Dörfchen’s murderous town mascot. That thing needed to be shown the door a long time ago.”

  Dunk sat down a quarter of the way around the fire from Slick. He had a bit of bacon he’d cooked up still in the pan, soaking in its own hardening grease. He offered this to the halfling without a word.

  Slick took the pan and said, “My undying thanks.” With that, he pulled a fork from the pocket of his waistcoat and set to work on the lukewarm food. He stuffed bite after bite into his mouth, seeming to take special delight in the bits to which large dollops of the coagulated fat had attached themselves.

  “I’ve already eaten, of course,” Slick said between mouthfuls, “but there’s always room for bacon. When you’re on the road like this, you never know when you might be able to eat well again, so I prefer to travel like a camel with what I need most already inside of me.”

  From what Dunk could see Slick was prepared to last through at least a month of short rations without undue suffering.

  “What is it you want?” Dunk said.

  The halfling stopped chewing for a moment as his eyes flew wide. When he resumed, he grinned around the fat stuffed into his cheeks. “More suspicious already,” he said. “I like that.

  “You know I saw you yesterday in the inn. I thought about warning you about the creature in that cave, but I could see you wouldn’t have any of that. You were bent on killing that ‘dragon’ you’d been hunting for, and little things like the truth weren’t going to get in your way.”

  “Hey,” Dunk started to protest.

  “Oh,” said Slick, waving off the young man’s concerns, “don’t think bad of yourself for it. I’ve seen this happen lots of times before. You’re a young man, you have something to prove, you think you can make yourself into a hero. You think other people will respond to that and treat you with courtesy and respect, adoration, even love. But it just doesn’t work that way, son.”

  Dunk stared at the halfling, amazed. It was if Slick could see right into his heart. “How can you be so sure?” the young hopeful asked.

  “Because,” Slick said, as seriously as if announcing the death of his parents, “I’ve been there.”

  Dunk smiled softly in spite of himself. “You were a hero?” he asked. “Did you slay many dragons?”

  “Now see here,” Slick said, as indignantly as he could around the fist-sized ball of lard squished in his cheek. “It’s not all about killing giant, flying lizards now, is it? Not all heroes are murderers, you know.”

  Dunk’s face flushed with his shame. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

  The smile came back to Slick’s greasy lips as if it had just passed behind a cloud for a moment. “Don’t fret about it son. People make that sort of mistake about me all the time. They think just because I’m a halfling I can’t make any sort of contribution to society other than keeping any plate in front of me clean.”

  Dunk looked down at the pan to see that Slick had certainly polished its surface spotless. The halfling didn’t miss a beat though.

  “But I gave up all that hero nonsense long ago,” he said, waving his fork at Dunk before licking it clean and sticking it back into his pocket.

  “Nonsense?” Dunk said. “What’s wrong with being a hero?”

  Slick snorted. “Nothing,” he said, “if you don’t mind a life filled with poverty, fear, and death. Most folks prefer the status quo, even if they’re living next door to a monster that might make off with their children at any moment. Sure, it’s a horrible thing, but who knows what else worse might be out there? Better the daemon you know.”

  Dunk shook his head. “I can’t believe that,” he said. “Can people really be so cynical? What about improving your lot and that of your neighbours?”

  “Like you did in Dörfchen today? You saw how grateful they were about that. You’re lucky you got out when you did. When Old Gastwirt told the townsfolk I’d given you that spear, they nearly lynched me on the spot. If the chimera hadn’t gotten up and bitten the baker nearly in half at that point, I think they’d have had me.”

  “The creature killed someone?” Dunk’s heart sunk with these words. He’d hoped he’d put an end to the creature’s reign of terror for good.

  Slick nodded. “He wouldn’t have, of course, if they hadn’t freed him.”

  Dunk goggled at this. “They did what?”

  The halfling smiled as he picked a piece of bacon from between his teeth with a small sliver of steel he’d pulled from another pocket in his waistcoat. “The fools freed him. The priest gathered together a group of men, and they went out to where the thing was staked down and pulled the spear out. They thought they could get the creature back to its cave and let it heal up so it could ‘protect them from the power vacuum’ you were bent on creating.”

  “And it repaid them by killing the baker?”

  Slick sighed bitterly, the humour draining from him.

  “He wasn’t much of a man, a bit too slow of foot, for one, which is what did him in, but he made the best pies in the Reikland.”

  After a long silence, Slick pointed his toothpick at Dunk and said, “It makes my point, though, you see. Being a hero is a sucker’s game.”

  Dunk gazed upwards into the brilliant stars shining in the Old World sky. They were just the same as they’d always been for him, every day of his life, but today they seemed more distant and cold. As a child, when Lehrer had tried to explain the nature of the constellations to him, the ancient patterns had transformed themselves into creatures from the myths and legends he so loved. Now, they were just stars again.

  “Now, Blood Bowl,” Slick said, stabbing with his toothpick for emphasis, “that is a game.”

  Dunk scoffed at the mention of the blood sport. He knew all about Blood Bowl, the insane game in which two teams faced off against each other in some mad abstraction of a real battle. Instead of killing each other to the last foe, though, they had to move a ball, sometimes covered with fang-sharp spikes, past the other team’s side of the field, into its “End Zone”, scoring a touchdown. The team with the most touchdowns after an hour of sometimes-murderous play won the match.

  “I hate it,” Dunk said, trying to keep his voice even.

  Slick’s eyes grew wide and as round as his cheeks. “Hate it? How can you hate it? It’s the greatest thing to happen to sport — ever! Maybe even to civilization itself.”

  Dunk nearly succeeded in stopping himself from sneering. “Or it’s the worst. It’s a bunch of thugs standing toe-to-toe and beating each other mercilessly for the enjoyment of others. The football is only a pretext for the violence. They might as well smash it flat and be honest about how the bloodshed is the only thing that keeps people coming back.”

  Slick smiled with the vision that flashed in his head. “I actually saw that happen once, in an Orcland Raiders game. They were playing the Oldheim Ogres, and the ogres forgot they were in the middle of a match. The Raiders lost five players before the referees got things under control again.”

  “That’s horrible!” Dunk said, shuddering with revulsion.

  “Hey, son,” Slick said seriously, “you’re the one that wants to be the hero. How do you think most heroes make their names around here?” The halfling waited for a moment, but Dunk didn’t answer, too astonished that someone would actually defend this monstrous game; and so eloquently.

  “They kill things,” Slick said. “Sometimes they kill ‘monsters’. Other times it’s their own kind. At least on the Blood Bowl pitch, there are rules.”

  “That no
one pays attention to,” Dunk countered. “I’ve seen bar brawls with more respect for life.”

  Slick smirked. “You’re confusing rules with lives. Hitting someone hard in the middle of the match isn’t just legal, it’s encouraged. If you can knock a foe out of the game, so much the better for you and your team.”

  “But the players cheat all the time!” Dunk said. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with a halfling here in the middle of the Grey Mountains. He’d left Altdorf behind so he could get away from such things, and now it seemed that they’d followed him into the wilderness. Perhaps he’d been wrong to head into the Reikland. Maybe the Middle Mountains would have been better.

  “That’s all part of the game,” Slick said. “It’s only cheating if you get caught. Then there are penalties.”

  “If you haven’t paid off the referees.”

  Slick grinned at that. “The other team can always try to buy the refs too. It all balances out in the end.”

  “It’s all about murderous greed and filthy gold.”

  “And mindless violence,” Slick said. “Don’t forget the mindless violence.”

  “Exactly!” Dunk said. “It’s just like, like…”

  “Like real life,” the halfling finished, “only more so. It’s brilliant.”

  Dunk hung his head and fell silent.

  After a while, Slick spoke. In a tentative voice, he said, “The best part about it is that you’re perfect for it.”

  Dunk’s head snapped up. He glared at the halfling as if he’d cursed him and said, “What are you babbling about?”

  Slick grimaced, as if being forced to bring up an unpleasant topic for the sake of a good friend. “Well, think about it. You’re young, strong, and obviously trained for battle. You’d be wonderful at it.”

  Dunk shook his head, perhaps more emphatically than he would have liked. “You’re talking madness.”

  “Am I? I watched you fight that chimera. I saw you throw that spear straight down its gullet. You’re a natural thrower if ever I’ve seen one. The best I’ve ever seen.” Slick saw the earnest doubt on Dunk’s face and added, “I swear in Nuffle’s name.”

  “Nuffle? The god of Blood Bowl?”

  Slick nodded, “As revealed to us in the sacred texts handed down by the first Sacred Commissioner Roze-El.”

  Dunk held back a deep frown. “That god means nothing to me.”

  Slick showed a greasy grin. “Then you’re just going to have to trust me.”

  “You’re an agent,” Dunk said, edging his way back to where he’d been sitting by the fire. “No one trusts an agent.”

  “Not bad,” Slick snorted. “You’re not as clean-cut ignorant as you come off.”

  Dunk started to say something, but the halfling cut him off.

  “But then again, no one could be, right?”

  Dunk held up a finger to interrupt. When he had Slick’s attention, he spoke. “Is that why you followed me here? To recruit me into playing Blood Bowl?”

  The knowing smile slid from the halfling’s fat face. He stared into Dunk’s eyes for a moment before saying anything. Dunk suddenly felt like a particularly tasty pastry in the halfling’s favourite bakery.

  “I’ll come clean with you, son,” Slick said. “The answer is yes.”

  He held up his hands before Dunk could protest.

  “I didn’t come to Dörfchen looking for you. I wasn’t looking for anyone in particular, just looking for someone special, if you know what I mean. There’s a team I work with that’s desperate for some new blood, including a good thrower: the Bad Bay Hackers.”

  “I don’t recognise the name.”

  “I thought you didn’t follow the game.”

  “I hate the game, but that doesn’t mean I can get away from it.”

  “Well said,” Slick nodded. “Anyhow, these guys are from just north of Marienburg and they’re a group of up and comers, just the hungry sort who require the services of someone like me.”

  Dunk rocked back, holding his legs to his chest. “How’s that?” he asked. “You don’t look like much of a player.”

  Slick almost choked on his laugh. “Hardly, son. But I can find them players, fresh blood from the corners of the world they don’t know much about yet. Sure, they could trade for better players, but they’d have to give up their own talent — what there is of it — for that. Better to go out and find some raw rookies and mould them into the kind of players they need.

  “That’s where you come in.”

  “Forget it.” Dunk leaned forward and spat into the fire, which sputtered at his insult.

  “But, son,” Slick said. “It’s everything you want: gold and glory. This is the way heroes are made these days.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Slick nodded. “Let me ask you a question. Do you know who Grimwold Grimbreath is?”

  Dunk pouted but he played along with the halfling’s game, waiting to see where it headed. “Captain of the Dwarf Giants.”

  “Hubris Rakarth?”

  “The Darkside Cowboys.”

  “Hugo von Irongrad?”

  “The Impaler? He’s with the Champions of Death.”

  “Schlitz ‘Malty’ Likker?”

  “The Chaos All-Stars. What’s the point of all this?”

  Slick’s smiled split his doughy face. “Name me the last person to kill a dragon, in the last five years.”

  Dunk opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “The last ten?”

  “There was that dragon terrorising the Border Princes, Blazebelly the Devourer.”

  Slick nodded. “But who killed him?”

  Try as he might Dunk couldn’t answer.

  “Gold and glory, son. If you want it, the best way is by playing Blood Bowl. And I can help.”

  Dunk felt his will wavering. Slick added one more thing, softly.

  “I know about the Hoffnungs, son. I know all about your family’s downfall and what part you played in it.”

  Dunk’s breath caught in his chest. “How?”

  Slick smiled ruefully. “I’m always on the lookout for new talent, son. Sometimes recruiting players means having leverage on them.”

  “Including blackmail?” Dunk said. The thought that Slick knew of his shame and would expose it to the world drove him nearly to despair. He considered throttling the little agent right there and then, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “I prefer ‘strategic bargaining positioning’,” Slick said.

  Dunk felt disgusted. He hated the halfling and everything he’d said, but he hated himself even more. Hearing that Blood Bowl was the best way to make money and a name for yourself in today’s world wasn’t the worst part of it. That was the fact that Dunk had been trying to convince himself was otherwise for months. The day’s events had overcome his last arguments, and the threat of public disgrace pushed him right over the top. There was for him, it seemed, only one path left.

  “All right,” Dunk said to the halfling through gritted teeth. “I’ll do it. On one condition.” His stomach flipped over as he spoke. He’d hoped that he would never have to sink so low that playing Blood Bowl looked like moving up, but here he was. He’d just make the best of it. Maybe there was room for real heroes in this game too — even if he doubted it himself.

  “What’s that?” Slick tried to suppress his toothy joy, but failed utterly.

  “Tell me who killed Blazebelly the Devourer.”

  Slick shook his head sadly before he answered. “No one, son. He killed all comers.”

  5

  The next morning, Dunk awakened to the smell of frying bacon. He sat up to find Slick spearing fresh-cooked strips of meat and stuffing them into his mouth. The halfling waved at him as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

  “Morning, son!” Slick said. “You looked so peaceful there, I didn’t want to wake you.”

  “So you just pillaged my saddlebags instead.” Dunk shot Pferd an evil look. The ho
rse had been trained to avoid strangers, but apparently it had decided Slick qualified as a friend. Dunk himself wasn’t so sure he was ready to apply that label to the halfling.

  “I prefer to think of it as ‘sharing’,” Slick said amiably. “After all, we’re going to be spending a lot of time together.”

  Dunk grunted as he got to his feet. “I thought you were supposed to be making me rich and famous.”

  Slick stabbed through three pieces of bacon and offered them to Dunk as he stepped forward. “You expect a lot overnight,” Slick said. “I like high aspirations. I have them for you myself.”

  “Before we go too much further down this road,” Dunk said in as businesslike a fashion as he could muster, “I have some questions.” Although Dunk’s father had kept most matters of the family business from him in his youth, he had picked up some of his father’s style. He knew how to handle himself in a negotiation, or so he liked to think.

  “Of course, son. I’d be surprised if you didn’t.”

  “First, what are you paid?”

  Slick smiled. “Right! Gold before glory it is then. That’s an easy one — you don’t pay me a thing.”

  Dunk smiled right back at the halfling, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he suddenly felt. “You’ll be my agent out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “In a sense, yes,” Slick said. “More to the point, I handle all negotiations and collections of your remuneration. When you are paid, I take a small and reasonable percentage for myself off the top and pass on the vast bulk of your earnings to you entirely untouched.”

  “And how much of a percentage am I to pay you?”

  Slick waved off the question. “Son, with my experience and expertise, I’ll make you so much more money than you’d make on your own that it’s more like your employers end up paying me to help you.”

  “Uh-huh,” Dunk said, unimpressed. “How much?”

  The halfling swallowed. “Ten per cent.” He held up a hand. “Before you object, I’ll have you know that’s entirely reasonable. Some of the other agents in the business charge up to half as much again for half the service.”