“He doesn’t want to die?”
Dirk shook his head. “This guy loves life too much. I can smell the stench of Chaos on him. He’s after power, power, and more power. He can’t get that if he’s dead.” He peered into Zauberer’s eyes. “Let him go.”
“No,” Dunk grimaced. “He’s slippery. Let’s call the Game Wizards and turn him over to them.”
“No need,” a voice said from the doorway. “We’re here.”
Dunk looked over his brother’s shoulder to see the tall dwarf and the short elf standing next to each other in the doorway like some kind of strange set of salt and pepper shakers. “Have you been following me?” he asked.
Dunk was so distracted he let go of Zauberer’s collar. The wizard turned and bolted toward the window.
“No!” Dunk shouted, dashing after the thin, wizened man, but he was too late.
Zauberer scrambled over Spinne’s bed (and her protests) and leapt straight out the window, kicking off from the sill to force himself further away from the cliff wall.
“Damn!” Dunk said as he crawled over Spinne too. She drew her legs out of the way for him, and he peered down toward the gulf far below.
The wizard had vanished.
“Where’d he go?” Dunk asked aloud. As the words left his lips, a gargoyle zoomed past him, nearly cutting him with the tips of its wings.
Zauberer hung from the creature’s hands. As he passed by, he cackled, “One more sacrifice for the Blood God!”
Dunk ducked back into the room, stunned. He saw the two Game Wizards standing stoically in the door. “What are you waiting for?” he asked. “Go after him!”
The dwarf turned to the elf and said, “Do you have a gargoyle waiting outside that window for you, Whyte?”
The elf kept looking straight at Dunk as he shook his head. “No, I can’t say I do, Blaque.”
“Shame that,” the dwarf said, looking back at Dunk. “Can’t help you there.”
Dunk just goggled at the pair in amazement.
“And to answer your earlier question,” Blaque said, “Yes, we were following you.”
“Why?” Dunk asked.
“I like that,” Blaque nodded as he stroked his short, ebony beard. “Straight to the point.”
“Don’t care for it myself,” Whyte said flatly.
“Are you going to answer his question now or wait for another murderous daemon-conjurer to leap from hiding first?” asked Dirk.
“We’ve had our eye on Dunk here for a while,” the dwarf said. “And you’re not as funny as you think.”
“What’s he done?” asked Spinne, who was now edging away from the window to the nearer side of her bed.
“There’s what we think he’s done and what we know he’s done, right?”
Whyte answered the question. “There have been a string of murders throughout the Blood Bowl teams this season, far more than usual. They point to a single, bloodthirsty individual methodically killing off any and all who stand in his way.”
“And you think that’s Dunk?” Spinne asked, her eyes wide.
“Correct,” said Blaque.
Dirk laughed out loud. “You’re nuts. Dunk, a crazed killer?”
The dwarf fixed his dark eyes on Dirk. “Didn’t he knock you through a window to fall a hundred feet into the gulf?”
Dirk grinned. “That was more of a mutual thing.”
“There’s the matter of the prospects killed in the Hackers’ tryout camp,” said Blaque.
“And the Broussard brothers,” added Whyte.
“I couldn’t have done that!” Dunk said. “Lots of people saw me in the Bad Water that night. Gods, you two were there!”
“Did I say he was working alone?” asked Blaque.
“I didn’t hear you say that,” said Whyte.
“Good,” said the dwarf. “I’d hate to give the wrong impression. Then there was the collapse of the dungeon yesterday.”
“I was in the theatre!”
“Am I going to have to repeat myself?” Blaque asked.
“I hope not,” Whyte said. “It’s tedious.”
“So I won’t,” Blaque said. “But we’re really hear to talk about the killing earlier today.”
“Which one?”
Blaque raised an eyebrow at this but continued on. “You may remember Ramen-Tut.”
Dunk narrowed his eyes. “He fell apart in my arms. And it was in the middle of a game.”
“You killed Ramen-Tut?” Dirk said in proud amazement. “Good job!” When he noticed the GWs glaring at him, he added in a whisper, “I always hated that guy.”
“We have Cabalvision images of you and Kur Ritternacht attacking Ramen-Tut,” the dwarf said.
“Tackling.”
“Most tackles don’t cause their victims to crumble irreversibly to dust.”
Dunk shrugged his shoulders. “My first time tackling a mummy.”
“During the attack, someone administered a magical charm that caused the victim’s dissolution. It had to be either you or Kur.”
“So it was Kur.” Dunk folded his arms across his chest. “Wait,” he said with a smile, “You don’t know who it was, do you? You can’t prove anything?”
“True enough,” Blaque said. “That’s why the Hackers have been banned from the tournament.”
“You can’t do that!” Dunk said, stunned. “Can they do that?” he asked Dirk and Spinne.
“They’re not technically in charge of any league,” Spinne said. “There isn’t any league. Each team is in charge of itself.”
“But Wolf Sports broadcasts the tournament,” said Blaque. “Do you think they know who the vice president of Wolf Sports is?” he asked Whyte.
“I can’t say they do,” answered the elf.
“It’s Shawbrad-Tut,” Blaque said. “Father to the deceased.”
Dunk’s heart sunk.
“Pack your bags, Dunk,” the dwarf said. “You’re going home; if you survive the trip back with all those angry team-mates, that is.”
“Don’t forget Pegleg,” said Whyte.
“True,” Blaque nodded. “That’s one vicious hook.” He shook hands with Dunk, as did the elf.
“If you make it to the Chaos Cup, we’ll see you there,” Blaque said. With that the two Game Wizards left.
Dunk, Dirk, and Spinne stared at the empty doorway for a moment.
Dirk put his arm around his brother. “Don’t worry,” he said. “It can’t get much worse, right?”
Dunk coughed. “Did I mention a threat on our lives by a black orc named Skragger?”
25
The trip back to Bad Bay was a long one for Dunk. Pegleg had been furious at what the Game Wizards had done, and he let them know about it. He told Dunk that he didn’t blame him in the slightest, but the rookie found it hard to believe that in his heart. Some of the other players, especially Kur, lay all the fault with Dunk, and they expressed their opinion at every opportunity.
Dunk took to sleeping on deck as the Sea Chariot made its way along the Old World’s long, convoluted coast. M’Grash stayed out there with him every night and Slick spent many a night up there too, although he enjoyed his comforts too much to make a commitment to it.
As the Sea Chariot went north, the weather grew colder and colder. Eventually, about the time the travellers spotted snow on the shore for the first time, Dunk gave in and went back to sleeping below deck. It was just too cold out in the open air.
“Pegleg had planned to return to the winter training camp for a while after the Dungeonbowl tournament,” Slick told Dunk one night, “but he was so angry at Wolf Sports he decided to head home right away. He claims it will toughen up the players to get them used to the cold. He’s even talking about scheduling some games with a Norse team or two.”
Kur tried to start a fight with Dunk more than once, but the ship wasn’t big enough for the thrower to avoid M’Grash at the same time.
For a while, Dunk worried that Kur might try to throw him overboard
in the middle of the night, but Kur never got up the courage to brave M’Grash’s wrath.
“Dunkel hurt, you die,” the ogre told Kur one evening when the thrower had been picking on Dunk.
“I promise not to harm a hair on his head,” Kur said mockingly.
“None of Dunkel’s hairs! He hurt, you die.”
“What if someone else hurts him?” Kur said. “You can’t hold me responsible then.”
“Dunkel hurt,” M’Grash said as clearly as he could, “You die.”
Kur glared at the ogre’s massive skull and said just as clearly, “Understood.”
The Hackers settled back into Bad Bay well, but for Dunk it was a bit of an adjustment. Bad Bay was a small farm town on the edge of the River Reik’s delta, right where it flowed into the Sea of Claws, in a part of the world north of the Empire, known as the Wasteland. Its biggest export was beef, which shipped out of the place’s small port almost daily, bound for places like Marienburg, L’anguille, and even Altdorf.
This was, in fact, where the Hackers’ name came from: the method by which the cattle were traditionally slaughtered in the warehouses next to the port. The water in the bay often ran red with blood, which might also have been how the bay got its name, although Dunk suspected a darker and nastier truth beneath that tale.
There were few places to drink in Bad Bay, and even fewer places to eat. While his salary had made Dunk rich, he had little or nothing on which to spend his money. On off days, he sometimes wandered down to the docks, hoping to find something exciting to buy or even news of Altdorf or other, further lands.
The Hackers practiced five days a week. They played a game once a week. Sometimes, if Pegleg couldn’t find an opponent, they just scrimmaged each other, but normally there was a proper team on the schedule. Marienburg had a pair of teams there. The legendary Marauders (once from Middenheim) had settled there a few years back, and just five years ago the Wasteland Wasters had finally mustered enough financial backing to go pro.
Kur had a great season, which meant a lot of time on the bench for Dunk. Once the outcome of the game was determined, Pegleg often substituted Dunk as the team’s thrower just to give the rookie some time on the field against real opponents. For a while, the coach had even experimented with a two-thrower line-up, but the fact that Kur and Dunk would never give each other the ball hampered its effectiveness.
Other times, Pegleg put Dunk in as a catcher. “There is no better training for a thrower, Mr. Hoffnung, than to see how hard it is to catch the ball.”
This meant that Kur had to throw the ball to Dunk, but he almost never did. Kur would rather throw the ball straight out of the opponent’s end zone than put it in Dunk’s hands.
However, towards the end of a close game against the Wasters, Dunk found himself alone in the end zone. He shouted and yelled for Kur to throw him the ball. By now, the Wasters had figured out that Kur didn’t want to do this, so they didn’t bother to cover Dunk at all.
“Throw Mr. Hoffnung, the damn ball!” Pegleg roared from the team dugout.
With time ticking down in the final half of the game, Kur had no choice. No one else was open, and running the better part of the field was not an option for him. He hated getting hurt even more than he hated Dunk. So he reared back and hurled the ball at Dunk as hard as he could.
As soon as Dunk saw the pass, he knew it was going to be long. He back-pedalled to the deepest corner of the end zone and leapt straight up into the air for it, but the ball still sailed over his head and landed in the stands. For a moment, he thought about chasing it, but one good look at the Marienburg fans convinced him to call the ball a loss. The fans eventually coughed it up, but it was too late. The clock ran mercilessly out, and the Hackers lost the game.
As the Hackers returned to their dugout, Kur charged Dunk. As he did, he took off his helmet and started beating Dunk with it. “You missed that throw on purpose!” he raged at the rookie. “You just cost us that game!”
Although M’Grash had kept Kur from actively hurting him, Kur had made Dunk’s life miserable for the past couple months. He took every chance to cause trouble for the rookie. Dunk had had enough. When Kur opened his mouth to berate him again, he reached out and popped the man across the chin.
Kur collapsed like a skeleton turned into a pile of bones. He was out cold before he hit the ground.
“Pick him up,” Pegleg said, “Him and his stinking glass jaw.”
The Waltheim brothers each got under one of Kur’s arms and hauled him off to visit the arena’s apothecary.
“You, Mr. Hoffnung,” Pegleg said. “He had it coming for sure, but this is over. I want the two of you to work this out tonight, or I may have to start talking with the other teams about a trade, and who knows which one of you they’ll want.”
* * * * *
While in Bad Bay, Kur stayed at the best inn within fifty miles, the Hacker Hotel. That night, Dunk walked over there from his decidedly less posh place at the FIB Tavern — which took its name from an obscene variety of Imperial Bastards — to make peace. He suspected he would only get into another fight, particularly because he’d made M’Grash stay back at the tavern, but he had to try. He was embarrassed that he’d lost his temper at a team-mate and actually hurt him, even if that team-mate was Kur. This was something he had to do.
When Dunk reached Kur’s private room on the hotel’s third floor, he knocked on the door. He knew Kur had to be there. From what Slick had told him, Dunk had broken Kur’s jaw, and the medicines the apothecary had given him would ensure he wouldn’t be too mobile tonight.
Dunk waited for a moment, and when no one came to the door, he knocked again. There was still no answer.
Dunk listened at the door for a moment and heard voices inside. Perhaps Kur was watching another game on Cabalvision, or maybe some of the other Hackers had come to play him a visit. Either way, Dunk wasn’t ready to turn around and go home now. He was afraid he’d lose his resolve if he didn’t do this now.
Dunk pushed on the door, and it swung open. In a corner of his mind, he saw that the lock had been shattered, but the sound of someone choking in the other room made him dash right by without inspecting it.
Kur’s place featured three rooms: a dining room, a sitting room (complete with a fireplace big enough to stand up in), and a bedchamber. The entrance let into the sitting room, but a quick glance around told Dunk no one was there. The sounds he heard came from the bedroom.
Dunk crept toward the bedroom door and flung it open. There in front of the bed stood two figures. The first was Kur, whose face was both bruised and blue. Next to the Hackers’ thrower, his meaty hands wrapped around Kur’s throat, stood Skragger.
The black orc turned to see who was interrupting his murdering. When he saw Dunk, he bared his tusk-like teeth and let Kur drop to the floor. The injured man lay there on the ground, gasping for breath.
“Want some of this?” Skragger asked.
Dunk drew his sword. He’d bought himself a fine blade in Marienburg, perhaps the best he’d ever owned, but it had yet to taste blood.
“Put that pigsticker away,” Skragger growled. “Just talking with yer friend. Sez you didn’t give him my message.”
“He’s a liar,” Dunk said, still keeping the tip of his blade between himself and the retired record-holder.
“Bad one too.” Skragger looked down at Kur, who was crawling onto his bed, still coughing and hoping for more air. “Think I made my point.”
With that, Skragger walked straight toward Dunk. “Leaving now,” he said. “Move and live.”
Dunk stepped back into the sitting room and gave the black orc a clear path to the exit. Once Skragger was gone, Dunk sheathed his blade and went to check on Kur.
The thrower sat in a pool of vomit on the edge of the bed, still coughing. When Dunk walked in, Kur stood up and charged the rookie. “You did this!” he said, his voice as hoarse as a stage whisper.
Dunk held up his hands to calm the veteran, but
Kur kept straight at him barely able to walk. Dunk caught the man in his arms and carried him bodily back to his bed.
“I had nothing to do with this,” the rookie said as he sat Kur back down, holding his shoulders so the man couldn’t leap up and attack him again. “Pegleg warned you about Skragger. You wouldn’t listen.”
Kur sneered at Dunk through his busted lips and broken jaw. “You little codpiece. You waltz in here and think you can just take my job.” Kur shook his head so softly Dunk wasn’t sure the man wasn’t just shuddering. “No one takes my place, in anything, ever. You know why?”
Dunk shook his head. He saw Kur fumbling around with something around his belt buckle, and he feared the man might need to vomit again.
“Because I’m willing to do anything to make sure it never happens.”
With those words, Kur drove the secret punch dagger he’d drawn from his belt buckle straight into the spot above Dunk’s heart.
The blade turned on something hard and unyielding. As it did, its honed edge sliced through Dunk’s shirt, exposing the breastplate hidden beneath.
“You must not think much of me,” Dunk said as his hand snapped out and knocked the punch dagger away. “You think I’m dumb enough to come see you alone without some kind of protection. I know you a little too well for that.”
Kur reached up with both of his hands and wrapped them around Dunk’s neck. Dunk ignored the feeble attempt to strangle him and drove his fist right into Kur’s jaw again. It gave a satisfying pop, and Kur flung himself backward, clutching at his face.
Dunk stared down at the man, struggling to master the rage in his heart. He considered killing Kur — he could honestly say it was in self-defence — but the impulse faded quickly. Instead, he drew his sword and kicked the man in the ribs.
Kur whipped his head around to snap something at Dunk, but he stopped when he came nose to tip with the rookie’s blade. He started to say something again, but a jab forward with the sword stopped him.
[Blood Bowl 01] - Blood Bowl Page 20