“Skragger, of course.”
Dunk hadn’t been interested before, but the name of the black orc snapped him back to attention. He craned his neck over the lip of the dugout to see the temporary stand a herd of goblins and snotlings had dragged into the centre of the field. “Anyone notice that the Chaos Cup symbol in the middle of the field looks a lot like a pentacle?” he asked.
“It is a pentacle, Mr. Hoffnung,” Pegleg said. “Strange things happen at the Chaos Cup all the time, and the teams finally insisted on some kind of protection. If you see a daemon, get your tail inside that pentacle’s circle, and you’ll be safe.”
Dunk eyed the circle carefully. “Are you sure about that, coach?”
“No,” Pegleg said. “Ain’t magic grand?”
“And now, here to accept the Orcidas Golden Spikes for the third year in a row,” Bob’s voice said, “the greatest black orc player of them all. The Prince of Pain. The Captain of Calamity. The Duke of Dirty Play. Ladies, gentlemen, and creatures of all kinds: Skragger!”
The crowd roared with approval as the black orc stepped up to the front of the makeshift stand that somehow looked much sturdier than anything else in the stadium. Skragger, dressed in a vibrant black Orcidas sweat suit trimmed with blood-red piping, waved at the fans, and they roared back louder.
“He’s something, huh?” marvelled Milo Hoffstetter.
“A couple decades of top play and high casualty counts, and you might be there too,” Pegleg said. “But concentrate on surviving today first.”
Despite his misgivings, Dunk found the event fascinating. This psychopathic orc — a redundant term, Dunk suspected — was the hero of all these fans. And how had he gotten there? Images of Skragger strangling Kur flashed through Dunk’s mind. He glanced at Kur and saw the man had turned white as Skragger took the field.
Dunk turned back to the ceremony, where he saw a man in dark robes walking up the steps of the stand in the centre of the pentacle with a pair of golden spikes in his hands. The rookie rubbed his eyes and then looked again, but the image was still the same. “That’s Zauberer out there!” Dunk shouted.
Before anyone could respond, Dunk sprinted out toward the stand. He didn’t know what was happening here, but if Zauberer was involved he couldn’t let it happen. “Zauberer!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Stop!”
“Well, Bob,” Jim’s voice said, “it looks like one of the Hackers has decided to join the ceremony.”
“That’s number seven, Dunk Hoffnung,” Bob said, “and he looks excited. Perhaps Coach Pegleg chose him for the traditional human sacrifice.”
“I thought Orcidas gave up on those after last year’s summoning of the great daemon Nurgle nearly started another Red Plague.”
“It looks like tradition may have trumped safety concerns once again. Bob. This is the Chaos Cup we’re talking about!”
The crowd fell silent with anticipation as Dunk charged the stage. He leapt onto the raised platform and tackled Zauberer just as he was about to present the golden spikes to Skragger.
“Wow, Bob! Hoffnung just waltzed right in there and took that man down. I wish he’d tackle like that during the games!”
“I know what you mean, Jim. I wonder where the defence is at a time like this. Doesn’t a player like Skragger rate any bodyguards?”
“Just look at him,” Jim’s voice laughed. “Does he look like he needs them?”
“I don’t know what you’re up to, wizard,” Dunk snarled at the terrified Zauberer, “but it ends here!”
The wizard struggled to stab Dunk with the spikes, but the rookie smashed Zauberer in the face first. He was about to follow up with a knockout blow, when someone pulled him bodily off the wizard.
“Gots a death wish, punk?” Skragger growled into Dunk’s ear. The crowd screeched with approval.
“Wait!” Dunk shouted. “This man is an evil wizard! He was going to kill you!”
Skragger just shook his head as he threw Dunk back over the edge of the stage. “Look around, punk. Game’s fulla evil wizards.”
Dunk scrambled to his feet to see Zauberer standing behind Skragger, who was still sneering down at Dunk, the two golden spikes raised high in his fists, poised to stab into the black orc’s back.
“No!” Dunk shouted, although he knew it was too late.
Just as Zauberer struck, Schlitz the six-horned minotaur, who’d been up on the stage to help present the award, dove between the wizard and the black orc. When Zauberer brought down the spikes, they drove straight into Schlitz’s chest.
Schlitz screeched in horror as the spike plunged into his flesh.
“What?” Skragger said as he turned to see what had happened. “You bloody bull!” he shouted at Schlitz. “No one steals my trophies!”
Dunk stood up and craned his neck around Skragger to see what was happening to Schlitz. As he did, he noticed Zauberer skulking away, but he was more concerned about the minotaur than the wizard at the moment.
Sparks of some nameless crimson energy arced between the spikes in Schlitz’s chest and quickly grew to cover the creature’s entire body. Then a vermilion bolt cracked down from the overcast sky, bathing the clouds and the stadium beneath in a hellish light. The bolt shot straight down through the minotaur and the stage, then flooded through the pentacle, illuminating its every line and edge. There were many gaps in the outer circle.
Dunk reflexively covered his eyes against the flash, and when he drew his hands away he saw Schlitz still standing on the stage, bent down on one knee. The creature’s fur and skin glowed an angry orange and red, reminding Dunk of the colour of flowing lava. When the minotaur looked up, Dunk could see that his eyes were a blazing scarlet from rim to rim.
“Who beckons the servant of the Blood God?” Schlitz roared in a voice that carried further than Jim or Bob’s. “Who shall be the first penitent to slake his thirst?”
“Bob,” Jim’s voice said. “I think we’re in for a real show here tonight.”
Skragger lowered his shoulder and stomped up to the minotaur, trying to knock him flying from the stage. Schlitz, or whatever daemon rode his flesh, swatted the black orc away like a gnat.
Dunk ducked as Skragger went sailing over his head to bounce off the turf behind him. Under most circumstances, this would have brought a smile to the rookie’s face. At the moment, though, Skragger’s fate was the furthest thing from his mind.
“You!” the blood-eyed minotaur roared as it stabbed a broken-nailed finger at Dunk, red energy still arcing among its six horns. “You’re next!”
Dunk stared up at the minotaur for a moment, then turned and ran.
Schlitz charged after the rookie thrower as he raced down the field.
“It looks like Hoffnung’s decided to challenge Khorne’s impromptu proxy here to a foot race,” Bob’s voice said. “Jim, do you think he has a chance?”
“Does a zombie smell like roses? Minotaurs are renowned for their hoof speed. I’d say it’s only a matter of seconds before the stampeding Schlitz puts an end to a very promising rookie season.”
Dunk knew the announcers were right. He had no hope of outrunning the minotaur in a fair race. Fortunately, “fair” didn’t enter into his plans.
As Dunk sprinted along the field toward the Hackers’ end zone, he heard Schlitz thundering after him, the minotaur’s hooves thumping along faster than the rookie’s heart. Dunk put everything he had into making the minotaur sweat. The longer the race lasted, the more careless the creature would be.
When Dunk felt the minotaur’s hot breath blasting down on his neck and could hear the energy arcing between his horns crackling in his ears, he threw himself to the turf and curled up into a tight ball.
Schlitz’s shins ploughed into Dunk’s back and knocked the rookie spinning. At the same time, the kneecapped minotaur went sailing over Dunk’s armoured form, his momentum sending him soaring into the air.
Schlitz landed headfirst in the Hackers’ end zone, his six vicious horns
stabbing through and embedding themselves in the turf there. His momentum brought his hooves flying up over his head until they landed hard on the turf in front of him. As this happened, there was a loud and sickening snap.
Bruised but still whole, Dunk scrambled over to where the minotaur lay, his head pointing in one direction and his body in another. Crimson energy arced around Schlitz’s body as the orange and red fire under his fur began to flicker and fade. His unholy screech of protest rang throughout all of Mousillon’s damned streets and alleys.
Unsure what to do, Dunk reached out and pulled the golden spikes from the minotaur’s chest. The unnatural lights blinked out immediately, and the screech dampened to a feeble cry.
Having fallen silent during the possessed minotaur’s death scream, the crowd now stared blankly and quietly down at the field to where the minotaur lay.
Still on his knees, Dunk crawled around to where Schlitz’s eyes still stared back at his own team’s end zone, all the way at the other end of the field. “Thanks, kid,” the minotaur whispered as the life went out of his soft, brown eyes.
Dunk reached out and closed those eyes, then stood over the minotaur, the golden spikes still in his hands.
“Gimme those, punk!” Skragger said as he came trotting down the field.
Angry, Dunk waited until the black orc was close enough and then flung the spikes at his face. Skragger splayed out his hands and caught them each neatly. Stomping to a halt, he brought the spikes up in front of himself and pointed them at Dunk.
“No one takes my trophies!” With that, he thrust his fists high into the air, the tips of the spikes facing toward the sky, and the crowd erupted.
When the noise came down a bit, Skragger lowered his arms and pointed the tips of the spikes at Dunk’s chest. “Next time I see ya, yer dead!” he snarled.
Unable to hear the black orc’s words, the crowd seemed to understand the intent. The people in the stands roared again, and Skragger trotted back to the stage, the spikes held high, basking in the adulation.
As Dunk watched the black orc enjoy his moment, he felt something on his shoulder. He turned to see a snake-headed creature with a trio of tongues standing behind him, dressed in a black-and-white striped shirt. The referee retracted its tentacle as soon as it realised it had Dunk’s attention.
“Sssorry, sssir,” the ref said, “but you’re going to have to leave the game. The rulesss againssst killing other playersss during half-time are quite clear.”
Dunk stared at the snakeman, uncomprehending. “I may have just saved the life of every person in this stadium,” he said, “and you’re worried about the game.”
The snakeman’s head weaved and bobbed nervously as he spoke. “You may — I’ll ssstresss ‘may’—have sssaved livesss today, but you alssso killed the captain of the Chaosss All-Ssstarsss. Our sssponsorsss frown on that.”
Dunk glanced back over his shoulder to where the referee was looking. Blaque and Whyte were standing next to a furious Pegleg in the dugout.
“If you leave right now,” the referee said, “we will let your team continue the game.”
Dunk didn’t look back at the snakeman. He just nodded as he began the long walk back toward the Hackers on the sidelines.
“What in Nuffle’s name were you doing out there, Mr. Hoffnung?” Pegleg demanded as Dunk stepped down into the dugout. Blaque and Whyte stood silently in a far corner, watching everything.
“Saving us all,” Dunk said, staring dejectedly at the wall before him. The other players didn’t say a word.
Pegleg grabbed one of Dunk’s spiked shoulder pads with his hook and pulled the rookie about to face him. “That’s not what you’re here for, Mr. Hoffnung. That’s not what I’m paying you for. If you even think about doing something like this again, you will be terminated, and I’m not just talking about your contract.”
Dunk brought his eyes up to look into Pegleg’s. “You can’t fire me, coach,” he said flatly. “I quit.”
28
The Chaos All-Stars, energised by the death of their captain — all the surviving players wanted to compete for his spot — thrashed the Hackers in the second half of the game. Dunk was back in his hotel room when Slick brought him the news.
“It’s too bad, son,” the halfling said. “You did the right thing.”
“That’s behind me now,” Dunk said, grimacing as he spoke. “I don’t want to have anything to do with that game now.”
“Wait,” Slick said, concern etched on his brow. “You’re not serious about quitting, are you? That was in the heat of the moment. I’m sure Pegleg will let it slide.”
Dunk shook his head. “That’s not going to happen,” he said. “I’m sick of this game. I’m sick of the death. I’m sick of the threats. I’m sick of the media trying to pin everything on me.” He sat down on the edge of his bed and buried his head in his hands. “I’ve had it. No more.”
“Son,” Slick said, his hands spread wide and open, “that’s part of the game, all of it. I thought you knew that going into it.”
Dunk threw himself back on the bed. “I knew it yeah, but I had no idea. It’s one thing to want gold and glory. It’s another to get it.”
Slick climbed up into the chair next to the bed. “It’s all over then, is it?” he said. “The gold and glory? You’ve had enough of it?”
Dunk put his hands over his face. He didn’t want to hear what Slick was saying to him. He didn’t want to think about it at all. The only thing he wanted was to be out of Blood Bowl for good.
“What then?” the halfling said. “Back to chasing dragons? We know how well that went.”
Dunk didn’t say a word.
“You have perhaps a bit too much of the hero in you, son. You certainly proved that today. But where else can you feed that part of yourself?”
“And where else can I get paid so well for it, right?” Dunk said.
“True enough,” Slick said, “although that wasn’t my point.”
Dunk sat up and glared at the halfling. “Face it, Slick, if it wasn’t for my ‘potential’ as a Blood Bowl player, you wouldn’t have crossed the street to spit at me.”
Slick stood up on the chair and glared back down at Dunk. “Think that if you will, but I didn’t have to open that door for you that night in Dörfchen, did I? I didn’t have to hand you that spear. That we’ve since made each other wealthy, well, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t important to me.
“You’ve never been poor, son. You may have left Altdorf and your family behind, but you never had to scrabble around in the gutter for scraps. You never had to wear rags for clothes. You’re so well off now, you don’t know how good you have it.”
Slick swung his arms around the place to show Dunk what he meant. As he looked around the grungy, leaky, draughty place, he grimaced and leapt down from the chair. As he headed for the door, he looked back and said, “There are worse places to be in Mousillon, you know. Playing Blood Bowl — having that kind of gold and glory — lets you make the best of a bad deal. Consider that before you throw it all away.”
The next morning, Dunk climbed aboard the Sea Chariot with the rest of the team. He didn’t say a word to anyone, and he studiously avoided Pegleg’s gaze. But as he walked past the coach, Pegleg simply said, “Welcome aboard, Mr. Hoffnung.”
The trip back to Bad Bay gave Dunk a lot of time to think. He spent his time above decks, day and night gazing out into the sky like some mad prophet looking for meaning in the clouds and stars. No one bothered him. Slick brought him his meals, and the halfling and ogre sat with Dunk as they ate, but they seemed content to share each other’s company without spoiling the moments with talk.
When the Hackers got to Bad Bay, Dunk was among the last to disembark. He watched the families and friends of the other players greet them at the dock, thrilled to find their loved ones had survived yet another tournament. There would be many a celebration in the tiny town that balmy spring night.
When Dunk finally did l
eave the ship, he saw Cavre limping up to him on a set of crutches, holding something in his hand. A beautiful woman and a gaggle of children stood at the end of the dock where they’d greeted the man, and they waited for him to return with wide and eager eyes.
“What is it?” Dunk asked as respectfully as he could. For all the problems Dunk had been having with the team, Cavre had always treated him with patience and respect.
“Congratulations, Mr. Hoffnung,” Cavre said, handing him a sheaf of bound papers that featured a colour image on the front. “You just made your first cover of Spike! Magazine.”
Stunned, Dunk flipped the magazine over to look at the cover. There was a picture of him standing over Schlitz’s body, the bloodied golden spikes still dripping in his hands. The headline read: “The Hackers’ Hoffnung: The Greatest Killer Ever?”
Dunk narrowed his eyes at Cavre. “Is this good or bad?” he asked. “In some circles, this would be a compliment.”
“Look at the by-line on the article,” Slick said, pointing at the cover again. It read: “Story by Lästiges Weibchen.”
M’Grash put his hand on Dunk’s shoulder and said, “Not good.”
Dunk thanked Cavre, who went home with his overjoyed family, and strode over to the Hacker Hotel. There, in the Hacker-decorated common room, he sat and read the article. He ignored the number of people staring at him as he did.
“Good on ya,” the bartender said as he brought Dunk and his friends a round of Hackers Stout, a dark and heady brew that was drinking more like bread than water.
Dunk looked up from the magazine, startled. The bartender — a sandy-haired young man named Henrik, with a Hacker logo tattooed on his forearm — smiled at him. “It’s great to see one of ours hit the big time,” he grinned. “These are on the house.”
“Thanks,” Dunk said, a bit confused. He sipped the beer as he continued to read.
[Blood Bowl 01] - Blood Bowl Page 22