[Blood Bowl 03] - Death Match

by Matt Forbeck - (ebook by Undead)

  Dunk nodded at the dwarf, who pointed at Dunk and then back down behind the bar. His intent was clear. If Dunk could make it over there, he’d do what he could to protect him, which, given the fact he ran the place, might be a good deal.

  Sparky was a great bartender, always friendly and respectful and ready to drive off anyone who gave the Hackers any trouble, which was why they always came here to blow off steam after every game. People in the area knew this, and it had started to drive up business for Sparky — even when the team wasn’t in town — and Dunk knew he was grateful for it.

  Was that enough of a bond for Dunk to stake his life on? At the moment, it seemed it would have to do. Knowing the eyes of every bounty hunter in the house were on him, Dunk stood atop the bar and shook his fist down at them.

  “If any of you think you’re tough enough to take me on without all your friends around you, then let’s have a go!” Dunk bellowed. “The one who beats me first can have the entire reward!”

  The patrons in the bar paused for a second to stare at Dunk and then at each other. Then they started swinging at each other instead.

  Dunk knew that the distraction wouldn’t last long. As soon as he moved back onto the tavern floor, the bounty hunters would forget their differences and return their attentions to him. So he took one step backward and fell down behind the bar in a crouch, dropping straight out of sight of anyone beyond.

  “Quick!” Sparky pressed at Dunk in a stage whisper. With one hand, the dwarf held up a low, wide hatch set in the floor directly under the bar. The index finger on his other hand jabbed straight towards the dark hole under the hatch.

  “Where does it lead?” Dunk asked as he scrambled over to the hatch on his hands and knees.

  “Anywhere’s better than here right now,” Sparky said. “Once you go, I can break up the fight quick, but you better move. They’ll fill the streets looking for you right after.”

  “Thanks,” Dunk said, shaking the dwarf’s meaty hand.

  Sparky grinned at Dunk through his beer-soaked beard. “Just add in a hefty tip once I send you your bill.”

  Dunk dived into the darkness beyond the hatch. It clicked shut behind him, cutting off all light and leaving him in pitch blackness. For a moment, panic gripped him, and he wondered if Sparky had trapped him in here so he could claim the reward for himself.

  Dunk told himself that he’d already made the decision to trust Sparky. Now he’d have to explore the results.

  He felt around with his hands and discovered he was in a long, low, and narrow passageway. The sides and bottom of it were lined with bricks, and the roof appeared to be the bottom of the tavern’s floorboards. There seemed to be only one way to go, and so that’s the way he went.

  Dunk found out the hard way that the crossbeams under the Bad Water’s floorboards cut through the top of the tunnel. After he banged his head the first time, he resolved to move more slowly and carefully.

  As he worked his way further along, the dull thumps and muffled bangs that sounded above his head stopped. For a moment, he hoped the fight was over, but he realised he’d probably just moved out from under the tavern’s floor. He tried to picture where the tunnel might lead him, but he couldn’t. He’d kept clear of the alleys that ran behind the Bad Water, and it came to him that if the passageway had been slowly turning in one way or the other he’d never have been able to tell. There was nothing to do but keep crawling on.

  The tunnel might have been comfortable for a dwarf, but Dunk found it claustrophobic after a while. He yearned to be able to stand up or just stretch his arms out to the sides. He doubted he could even turn around in the passageway, even if he wanted to. It was just too tight.

  Then something bit him on his thigh. He fell on his shoulder as he spun around in the tight tunnel and grabbed at it, but he couldn’t find anything there. He gasped in horror and began shoving himself down the tunnel with his heels, sliding along on his seat.

  A muffled laugh echoed through the tunnel, and Dunk knew what had happened. He sat up in the tunnel — it was just tall enough for him to do so without bumping his head — and stuffed his hand into his pocket. There he found his leather purse. He pulled it out and untied it from his belt and then swung it hard, smacking it against the wall.

  “Yowch!” a tiny voice said from within the bag, “Knock it off!”

  “You bit me, you little bastard,” Dunk said.

  The thing in the purse sniggered. “Gotta make my own fun.”

  “Do it again, Skragger, and I’ll smash you flat.”

  “Better than being a shrunken head,” Skragger said in his high, tiny voice.

  Dunk swung the purse around fast. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Respect me!” Skragger said. “Had season scoring record once.”

  “Before Dirk broke it.” Dunk said. “You’re lucky to even be a shrunken head after what you tried to do to me. If Cavre hadn’t worked his magic on you, you’d be just one more dead orc rotting in the ground.”

  Dunk considered crushing Skragger’s head into paste right there and then, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. If living as a shrunken head in Dunk’s purse wasn’t punishment enough, what was? Killing the orc would be too good for him.

  If Dunk could have figured out a better fate for his old nemesis, he’d have made it happen. He hadn’t asked Cavre to make the old orc into a squeaking caricature of his former self, although Dunk had to admit the little guy was a ton of fun to break out at parties. He felt responsible for him now though. He couldn’t just give him to someone else.

  Or could he? Either way, that wasn’t something he could devote any time to ponder now. He tied his purse to his belt again with its leather strings and let it dangle there. Skragger wouldn’t be able to bite him while he swayed about in mid-air, and that would do for the moment.

  “What’s the big idea biting me?” Dunk asked. “Don’t you think I have enough trouble on my hands?”

  Skragger snorted. “Get me that reward, buy me new body. Maybe use yours, get me stitched to your neck.”

  Dunk smacked the purse hard and started crawling again, trying to shut the old blitzer’s snickering out. After a while, Dunk smacked his own head into something again, but not nearly as hard as the first time. He reached out with his hand to see how far down it ran, and he found that the obstacle ran from the top of the tunnel to its bottom and all the way across.

  Dunk took a deep breath to steady his nerves, and when he exhaled it sounded like a shout in the closed-off tunnel. He reached out and felt along the wall in front of him until his fingers found a latch. Letting loose a sigh of relief, he undid the latch and gave the little door in front of him a push.

  Dunk saw lanterns flickering in the distance, but the world outside the doorway stood shrouded in shadows. He heard the familiar sound of water lapping up against a reinforced shoreline, and somewhere above him people shouted something he couldn’t make out.

  He moved out through this hatch and glanced around to get his bearings. The tunnel had brought him out underneath the base of one of the piers that stabbed out of Magritta’s wharfside district. Boots tramped along the wooden planks above him, moving in all directions. He heard his name shouted a few times, but never in alarm. He believed, for the moment at least, that he was safe.

  “Fancy meeting you here, kid,” said a high-pitched voice that seemed as if it might break into a wicked cackle any second.

  Dunk recognised the voice immediately. He’d never heard anyone else talk like that, and he hoped he never would. In fact, he’d have been thrilled if he hadn’t been hearing this exact person’s voice.

  “Gunther the Gobbo!” Dunk said, keeping his voice at a harsh whisper. “What are you doing here?”

  The thought that Sparky had sold him out to the unscrupulous bookie thrummed in Dunk’s mind. It made him want to strike out and kill the greasy creature right there and then. He could just let the body fall into the waters of the harbour below, and no one wou
ld be the wiser. No one would miss the bookie anyway, least of all his clients.

  Gunther crept out from behind a nearby piling, and Dunk realised he was standing on a narrow, wooden walkway that ran directly under the hatch out of which he was leaning. The bookie had the same wild, green eyes, long, wide nose, and horrible, wart-and-lesion covered skin that Dunk remembered. He swept the long wisps of his forelock back onto his balding scalp and grinned at Dunk with his tiny, child’s teeth.

  “Waiting for you, of course. You’re suddenly a lot more popular than you used to be.”

  Dunk crawled out of the tunnel and crouched on the walkway, ready to pounce at Gunther in an instant.

  “Where are they?” Dunk asked, glancing around.

  “Who?” Gunther jumped as if startled, and almost fell off the walkway as he scanned the darkness for whomever Dunk might have expected.

  “Your henchmen, your hired muscle, your thugs, your business associates — whatever you’re calling them these days. Trot them out and let me kill them.”

  Gunther chuckled softly, and Dunk knew he’d seen through his bluff. Despite the fact that he played Blood Bowl for a living, he was no cold-blooded killer. “I’m no bounty hunter, kid. I’m a businessman.”

  Dunk narrowed his eyes at the squat bookie. “You’re alone?”

  “Have you ever known me to want to share my profits?”

  Dunk scowled at the piggish bookie, and then said, “How did you know where to find me.”

  “Kid.” Gunther looked at Dunk as if he must be shamming being a moron because no one could really be that thick. “Sparky’s a friend of mine. In my line of work, I’ve had occasion to make use of that secret passage of his myself. I knew you’d be at the Bad Water tonight celebrating your victory, just like you always do. You’re a creature of habit.”

  The thought that his actions were so predictable disturbed Dunk. If Gunther could figure out where he might end up, then anyone else could too. Due to his time with the Hackers — and that documentary Lästiges made about their voyage to Albion in search of the Far Albion Cup last year — anyone with access to Cabalvision knew what he looked like. With a million-crown reward on his head, how would he be able to live?

  “I was just a few doors down from here myself when I saw that half-time report. That’s a bad break, kid. You’re going to need all the friends you can get.”

  Dunk saw where the Gobbo was going. The man had long made a living as an influence peddler. He saw a wealthy player on a popular team in need of his services, and he pounced on it like a snake on a rat.

  “I already have all the friends I want,” Dunk said. “Besides, I thought you’d shut the Black Jerseys down.”

  Gunther smiled, and his teeth seemed to glow in the shadows. “Let’s just say I’ve learned my lesson about keeping a low profile. Who needs such colourful names and complicated plans when it’s so much more effective to just help guide the right players in the right directions?”

  “Get out of my way,” Dunk said.

  Gunther pointed to where the walkway ran off behind Dunk. “You’d be better off going that way.” His grin grew wider. “Take my word for it.”

  “I owe you nothing,” Dunk said. He turned and padded off away from the bookie as fast as he could without making too much noise.

  “It’s on the house, kid,” Gunther called after him, far louder than he would have liked. “I’m already setting up a pool for when you’ll get caught. I’ll make a killing!”

  5

  Dunk spent the next few days in hiding. That night, he rolled a drunken sailor on the edge of the wharf and stole his clothes for a disguise. He smudged his face with grease he found in a barrel at one dark end of the wharf. Then he made his way through the back alleys near Magritta’s wharf until he found a pub that rented out a few rooms in the back, mostly by the hour. Then he collapsed until the sun rode high over the city the next day.

  Dunk knew that Pegleg would want him to take part in the team’s practices, but he didn’t see how he could manage it without starting a riot. So he stayed away, exercising in private to keep himself in condition and to force his mind away from concentrating on his troubles. He would deal with Zauberer and his mysterious employers soon, but right now he just needed to concentrate on getting ready for the game.

  The morning of the Spike! Magazine Tournament final match, Dunk slunk through Magritta’s predawn streets and found his way to the Hackers’ inn. He entered the place through the kitchen, blowing past the workers, who thought he was trying to steal a meal. He took the back passages up to Cavre’s room and knocked gently on the door.

  “Come in,” Cavre said, looking like he was ready to start the day’s match already, even though the sun had just risen over the horizon.

  “Were you expecting someone?” Dunk asked as he stepped into the room. “You’re already dressed.”

  Cavre closed the door behind Dunk and gestured for him to take one of the chairs in the suite’s parlour. “You, of course,” the blitzer said. “People have been camped out in front of your and Spinne’s room for days. Even M’Grash has a contingent of hopefuls who believe you will go to him first. For myself, I chased every one of them off with a long knife, and so the way is clear.”

  “Isn’t the fact that we’re staying here supposed to be a secret anyway?” Dunk asked. Before the big matches, teams often checked into new inns or stayed in remote areas to prevent their upcoming opponents — or opposing fans — from trying to sabotage them before the game even started. The Hackers stayed only with trusted innkeepers renowned for their discretion, and they paid handsomely for the treatment. With as much gold on the line as there was in top-level Blood Bowl tournaments, even a cheapskate like Pegleg considered the cost a wise investment.

  Cavre gave Dunk a smile that said the thrower already knew the answer. “We pay for our privacy in gold, so gold can penetrate it as well. With a million Imperial crowns at stake, our privacy looks like a used archery target.”

  “So I’m not safe here,” Dunk said, glancing at the door.

  “You are not safe anywhere, my friend. As long as there’s that price on your head, you’re fortunate to find any space where you can rest it.” Cavre took a long look at Dunk. “Take a nap in my bed. I’ll have some food brought up later, and when you’re ready we’ll gather the team to make a try for the stadium together.”

  “I’m surprised some of the new players haven’t tried to sell me out.” Dunk lay back on the couch, surprised to realise how tired he was.

  “Who’s to say they didn’t?” Cavre said. “Captain Pegleg has held team meetings every day in which he emphasises loyalty and teamwork. I doubt any of them would move against you directly, but someone might decide that selling information about your whereabouts would be harmless enough.”

  “So it’s good I kept away,” Dunk said. “I thought Pegleg would be furious about me missing so much practice time.”

  Cavre laughed. “I never said he was happy. He’s spoken to Mr. Fullbelly about docking your pay, but I believe your agent has convinced him that you’re acting in the team’s best interests.”

  “Let’s hope he’s right,” Dunk said with a yawn. “Maybe it would be better for the team if I quit.”

  This time Cavre didn’t laugh a bit. “Do you think that throwers with your talent and skill can be found on any street corner? Do not fool yourself, Dunk. The Hackers’ fortunes have turned around since you joined our team, and the timing is no coincidence.”

  “Why, Cavre, that almost sounded like a compliment.” Dunk’s eyes closed of their own accord as he spoke.

  “Do not become arrogant about it. Those who let such things go to their heads often have their brains dashed out on the field.”

  Dunk thought he had a snappy response to that, but before he could utter it he fell fast asleep.

  When Dunk woke up, he found himself laid out on a bench in the Hackers’ locker room, already dressed in his Blood Bowl armour. He opened his eyes to f
ind Slick staring down at him, a self-satisfied grin on his face.

  “Welcome back to the land of the living, son. You’re just in time to make your mark on Blood Bowl history.”

  Dunk tried to sit up right away, but found that his head felt woozy. Spinne jumped over an intervening bench to give him a hand and get him up on his feet. “Thank you,” he said before sitting back down again. He considered it a personal victory that he hadn’t lain down on the bench once more.

  “What happened?” he asked as he tried to shake the cobwebs from his head. “I don’t think I’ve ever slept that hard before.”

  “Well,” Spinne said putting an arm around Dunk and kissing him on his unshaven cheek, “Pegleg figured that we couldn’t be seen walking into the stadium with you. It would have caused a riot, and — as much as I’d be happy to defend you to the death — we have a match to play today.”

  “So?” Dunk said, still confused.

  “So he called in Dr. Pill who slipped you a little something to help keep you asleep.”

  Dunk glanced across the room and spotted the elf watching him, nodding approvingly at his own handiwork. He flashed Dunk a grin and gave him a big thumbs-up. “You’ll feel fine in no time,” he called over.

  The other players in the locker room paused for a moment to give Dunk a cheer, which he waved off with a sheepish grin. “Thanks, guys,” he said before they each returned to their own pre-game preparations and rituals.

  “How did you get me here?” He ran a hand through his hair and realised it was wet.

  “Well, we had to pack you away in something that no one would notice us carrying through the streets of Magritta. We couldn’t trust anyone else to transport you, especially since you were unconscious, so it had to be something we regularly had with us. If there had been anything out of the ordinary, people after that bounty on your head would have tried to stop us immediately.”

  Dunk cracked his neck, working the stiffness from it. He saw M’Grash coming over to greet him, the ogre’s regular, goofy grin on his face. Some people mistook it for an evil leer, but Dunk had known M’Grash for far too long to make that mistake. “So how did you get me here?” Dunk asked again.