[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball

by Matt Forbeck - (ebook by Undead)

  “Is it back to Bad Bay for us then?” asked Slick.

  Dunk grimaced. Even though they wouldn’t play in the Dungeonbowl, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t have a full slate of games before them. As soon as Pegleg managed to line up enough recruits to fill the team out again, they’d be at it, playing in local or regional games until the Chaos Cup came around. That was six months off though. At least the Hackers would have a chance to practice with their new teammates and ease back into the game with a few patsy matches before facing their next tournament.

  Pegleg shook his head and allowed a shadow of a smile to spread across his face. “That’s the good news, Mr. Fullbelly. Instead of crawling back home to lick our wounds, we’re going to take the kind of bold, decisive move that defines champions, both in the game of Blood Bowl as well as life.”

  The bottom of Dunk’s stomach fell out. Even as Pegleg spoke, the thrower knew what his coach was going to say. As much as he dreaded it, he couldn’t turn away.

  “We’re going to Albion, my Hacker dogs!” A mad light of greed danced in Pegleg’s eyes. “There, we’ll find the Far Albion Cup and bring it back to dominate the Blood Bowl League — or die trying!”

  6

  “So you’re dead for sure,” Dirk said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise in the Bad Water. The other patrons cheered as Khorne’s Killers scored another touchdown against the Chaos All-Stars. The Killers’ team captain, Baron Von Blitzkrieg, celebrated by ripping the second, vestigial head off one of the All-Stars’ linemen and spiking it in the end zone.

  Dunk scowled at his brother. Although Dirk had been playing Blood Bowl for a few more years than he — under the assumed last name Heldmann — Dunk was still the elder. It galled him that his little brother — who stood an inch taller than him — liked lording this difference over him so much. But that was the point, Dunk supposed.

  “We’re going to Albion,” Dunk said. “We’ll wander around there for a while looking for a trophy that no one’s seen for over five hundred years. We’ll come back in time for the Chaos Cup.”

  “You’d better,” said Spinne. Sitting next to Dunk, her arms wrapped around him, she gave a squeeze tight enough to make sure he knew better than to argue with her.

  Dunk smiled as he looked deep into Spinne’s grey-blue eyes. He pulled an arm free from her grasp and used it to brush a few stray strands of her strawberry blonde hair from her eyes. Most of it still hung in a long braid that hung behind her, but it had been a long day.

  After Pegleg announced the Hackers’ plans, Dunk had gone looking for his lover. He’d tried the Reavers’ camp first but had been told she’d left for a run. He’d caught up with her on a beach on the western shores of the bay, and they’d spent the rest of the day frolicking in the surf and sun.

  Dunk had told Spinne right away that he’d be leaving the next morning, and she’d only nodded silently. They’d never said another word about it — until they met Dunk’s brother Dirk on his way for a drink at the Bad Water. He’d insisted they join him and fill him in. Dunk hadn’t seen a good way around it, despite the fact he knew it would break the spell of denial Spinne and he had spun around themselves.

  “It sounds like madness to me,” Dirk said. “Making an open-sea voyage in Captain Haken’s rickety old boat, across the Sea of Claws, so you can wander around that hapless excuse for an island nation. And what if you do find the Far Albion Cup? How are you going to get it out of the country if everybody there wants it just as bad as you do?”

  “One step at a time,” Dunk said. “It can’t be any more dangerous than playing a match of Blood Bowl.”

  Dirk shook his head. “I’ll take my chances on the gridiron any day. Those Albionmen are just weird. They talk funny, they have strange, stuffy manners, and they dress like fops. They’re all ‘cheerio’ and ‘pip, pip,’ and all the while they’re looking to stab you in the back with a polished blade. I’d rather take a tour of the Troll Country. At least there you know when someone’s trying to kill you.”

  Dunk stared at his brother. “What do you know about Albion culture? Just what you’ve seen on Cabalvision?”

  Spinne snorted, then looked at Dunk, surprised. “You don’t know?” She goggled at Dirk, and then grinned. “You never told him!”

  Dirk blushed. “There’s never been, well…. I just haven’t been able to….” He scowled. “It never came up!”

  “What?” Dunk said staring back and forth between his brother and his woman. Then it dawned on him, and he gaped at Dirk. “You played in the Far Albion League!”

  “No,” Dirk said, raising a finger. Then he dropped it. “Well, yes, but not even for a full season.”

  Spinne held Dunk’s arm, enjoying Dirk’s discomfort. “Your brother tried out for the Reavers, but he didn’t know much more about Blood Bowl than you did when you started.”

  “Hey,” said Dirk, “at least I was a fan. I knew how to play the damned game.”

  “Not very well, it seems,” said Dunk.

  “I — it’s not as easy as it looks. You should know.”

  Before Dunk could respond, Spinne cut in. “After your brother got cut from the Reavers’ tryouts, he jumped the first ship to Albion to try his luck there instead.”

  Dirk threw up both his hands. “It’s my story, damn it. Let me tell it.”

  Spinne nodded and gestured gracefully for Dirk to continue. “Please. I’m sure it will be inspirational,” she said with a giggle.

  Dirk ignored Spinne and focused his attention on Dunk. “You know how our family never wanted me to play Blood Bowl.”

  “Either of us.”

  “But I was determined. Hells, there I was — fresh sprung from the life of an aristocrat — and I wasn’t about to live like a peasant. But the only skills I had came from our tutor, Lehrer. Sadly, the things a noble child learns are meant to help him keep his wealth. They don’t do a damn thing to help you get rich in the first place.

  “Working a regular job is no way to get ahead in this world. Sure, I could have tried my hand as a guard or a mercenary, but the people who hire you are the ones with all the money. They keep you around to protect it, not share it.

  “So, I figured I had two options. I could either become a Blood Bowl player or a dragon slayer. And what kind of idiot wants to go up against dragons?”

  Dunk’s face reddened at this as he remembered his own ill-fated stab at that career path. He’d thought it more honourable than playing Blood Bowl, despite the inherent dangers in challenging monsters the size of small castles. Slick had talked him out of that.

  Sometimes Dunk wondered if he’d made the right choice. As a Blood Bowl player, he had plenty of money and more fame than he cared for, but he knew his parents would be as disappointed with him as they had been with Dirk. Still, being a live football player beat being a dead dragon slayer any day.

  “When the Reavers turned me down, I thought I might head for the Grey Mountains and try my hand at hunting dragons instead. I’d heard one had been haunting the area around Dörfchen for years.”

  “That’s just a rumour,” Dunk said, clearing his throat. “Trust me.”

  Dirk looked at Spinne and shrugged before continuing.

  “Anyway, one of the other hopefuls who got cut was an Albionman by the name of Nigel Priestly. ‘It’s a bad spot of luck,’ he told me, ‘But at least I can always fall back on the Far Albion League for another season.’”

  “I hadn’t heard much about this before, but Nigel filled me in on it. He told me it was much easier to make a team there and that the Old World leagues sometimes used the FA League as a farm system, recruiting the best players to join them in the big time.

  “It sounded better than dragons to me, so Nigel and I worked our way across the Sea of Claws on a vessel of fortune.”

  “I heard you went drinking in the wrong pub and ran into a pirate ship’s press gang,” Spinne said.

  Dirk grinned. “All part of the master plan. It was hard work, but sinc
e Nigel and I didn’t have a gold piece between us it made good sense. Best of all, they grabbed us before we settled up with the bartender that night, so we got a free night’s drinks out of it too.” He tapped his temple with a forefinger. “Clever.”

  Dunk shook his head. “Only you could say that about that plan with a straight face.”

  “You’re just jealous. When we made it to Albion, it was just as Nigel had said, only much, much worse. The Albionmen are a weak-spirited sort, living on the scraps of dignity left over from some former empire they claim to have once been a large part of — the Far Albion Royal Consortium Empire. I’d never heard of it before, but they made sure to tell me all about it every chance they had.

  “It’s all long gone now, of course. As Nigel put it, they ‘live on in the fading echoes of their former glory.’ I don’t know about that. All I can say for sure is that their taverns close too damn early for anyone to make a proper night of it and that their football teams suck.”

  “It’s probably because we take all of their top talent, right?” Dunk said.

  “That and a true lack of a killer instinct. How many Albionmen do you see in the Blood Bowl League?”

  “There’s Simon Sherwood,” Dunk said.

  “He’s a catcher. Catchers don’t count. I’m talking about real—ow!”

  Dirk lurched to the side, rubbing the ribs into which Spinne had jabbed her elbow.

  “Thrower,” Dunk said to his brother, “meet your star catcher.”

  Dirk flushed, but his face didn’t turn as red as Spinne’s.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “Catchers are just as tough as any other players.”

  “Catchers are tall, lean people with the legs of a horse and the hands of a spider. They can’t tackle to save their lives, and they fold like cheap chairs when you smash into them.”

  Spinne raised her fist to punch Dirk again, but another hand snapped out to hold it back. The catcher snarled and pulled her arm around, dragging her attacker after it.

  A gorgeous woman in an attractively cut version of a nobleman’s clothes rolled over Spinne’s shoulder and landed in Dirk’s lap. She pulled her long auburn hair out of her deep, dark eyes and glared up at Spinne. “Careful there, player!” she said through her ruby-painted lips. “I was just trying to defend my man.”

  “Lästiges Weibchen!” Spinne said. “You’re lucky I didn’t throw you over the bar.”

  Dunk nodded. “It’s pretty nasty back there. Take it from me. I hear they used to let the rats lick it clean, but they kept vomiting everything back up.”

  Dirk started to say something, then thought better of it and planted a big kiss on Lästiges’ full, pouty lips. Dunk and Spinne watched them for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then they picked up their beers and each took a long pull. Then Spinne let loose a loud, long belch.

  Dirk and Lästiges broke their embrace and stared over at Spinne. She smiled at them with closed lips, then said, “Excuse me.”

  “Good to see you again, Lästiges,” Dirk said before the others could respond. “I thought you’d be busy covering the game for Wolf Sports.”

  Lästiges extricated herself from Dirk’s arms and took an open chair between him and Dunk, across the table from Spinne. “Normally, I would be, but I don’t care much for those all-Chaos games. They’re just too…”

  “Chaotic?” Spinne said.

  “Messy. Some of those mutant parts just aren’t attached as well as they should be. I suppose that’s what you should expect, they being so unnatural and all, but it’s no fun working as a sidelines correspondent when you’re getting splashed with hot ichor during every change of possession.”

  “So you pulled some strings to get a night off to be with me?” Dirk said with a hungry grin.

  “Don’t I wish, darling.” Lästiges caressed Dirk’s square chin with her well-manicured, crimson-tipped fingers. “If I had that kind of pull with the network, I’d never work a Chaos game again. No,” she said looking at Dunk and then Spinne. “I’ve been given a new assignment for which I must ship out in the morning.”

  “That’s just too bad,” Spinne said without a dash of sincerity. “What are you on to next? Writing an expose on the mating rituals of trolls? A hard-hitting investigation of what’s rotten in Kislev? Or perhaps you’re off to stir the ashes of Middenheim?”

  Lästiges’ Cabalvision reporter’s smile dazzled Dunk with its falsity. “I thought of following around a trollslayer until he finally found his doom, but then I thought ‘that’s been done to, well, death.’ I could have charted the meteoric rise of great female catchers in the league, but then I realised there weren’t any.”

  Dunk put a hand on Spinne’s arm to keep her in her seat. The reporter continued quickly before the catcher could throw off the restraint.

  “Then my boss, Ruprect Murdark, he heard that one of the Blood Bowl league’s premier teams was going to leave town with its collective tail between its legs and run off to the Far Albion League.”

  Dunk took his hand from Spinne’s arm, but before he could get up to protest he felt her hand pull him back into his seat.

  “He thought that would make a great story,” Lästiges said. “Since he owns the network, I could hardly disagree with him. Right then. In public.”

  “You’re probably right,” Dirk said. “I can’t imagine who would care about something like that. A bunch of major leaguers going to romp around in the minors? Who’d—”

  Dirk stopped cold then stared at Dunk. “Oh.”

  “Welcome aboard,” Dunk said to Lästiges.

  “Literally,” the reporter said, the same patently false smile on her perfect face. “I’ve booked passage aboard the Sea Chariot.”

  “On the Hackers’ own ship?” Spinne said. “Pegleg would never rent space out to outsiders.”

  “He let Slick and I join him on the way to Magritta last year,” Dunk pointed out.

  “You were a prospect. She,” Spinne pointed a long finger at Lästiges, “she is a reporter.”

  Lästiges let her smile drop. “Look, dear,” she said. “I’m not thrilled about this either, but Mr. Murdark is dead set on it. Reality shows are all the rage on Cabalvision these days, second only to Blood Bowl itself. A reality show about a Blood Bowl team? It’s sure to be a smash hit!”

  “Then why don’t you want to go along?” Dunk asked. “I mean, you’re as aggressive a ladder-climber as I’ve ever seen. Don’t you want to host a hit show?”

  Lästiges reached over and grabbed Dirk’s hand. “Normally, yes, but your brother here has, well…”

  Dunk couldn’t believe the woman actually blushed. He’d thought nothing could embarrass the shameless story-hound.

  “Altered my priorities,” Lästiges finished. “I pushed for being assigned to follow the Reavers, but Mr. Murdark said he needed his top reporter on this job.”

  “What happened to Cob Rostas?” Spinne asked. “Or Mad Johnny? Or—”

  “He chose me,” Lästiges said. “I’ll be leaving with the Hackers tomorrow morning.”

  “Dirk was just telling us about his time in Albion,” Spinne said.

  “Really, darling?” Lästiges turned to the startled Dirk. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  “Um, there’s nothing much to tell, really” he said. “I spent a few months there playing for the Blighty Blighters before the Reavers figured out what a mistake they’d made and offered me a contract. I slipped out of the country like a thief in the night and never looked back.”

  “Did you ever play for the Far Albion Cup?” Dunk asked.

  Dirk nodded. “Once. Turns out the ‘cup’ is just this battered tin replica of the real thing. It’s been passed around from team to team so many times, you almost can’t recognise it as a cup any more. Kind of disappointing, you ask me.”

  “Sounds like you didn’t care much for Albion, my sweet,” said Lästiges as she cuddled up next to him.

  “It’s nothing like home,” Dirk said.
“Most of the people there are so damned proper you’d think they hadn’t figured out sex and violence yet. They pour a damn fine pint, but most of the time when I was over there I was just, well, bored.”

  Spinne frowned as she put her hand on Dunk’s. “Let’s hope your trip is just as uneventful.”

  “Nuffle’s ’nads!” Lästiges said. “I hope not. I need the ratings!”

  “So,” Dunk said, wrapping his arms around Spinne as they lay naked next to each other in the wide, feather-stuffed bed. “What’s next?”

  “I was thinking about ringing for some room service,” Spinne said, a contented smile on her face. “That always gives me an appetite. I hear they make a great paella here.”

  “They should, for how expensive it is.”

  Spinne gave Dunk a gentle poke in the ribs. “You have regrets? Or are the Hackers not paying you enough?”

  Dunk grinned. “As a Blood Bowl player, I make more money than I’ve ever seen before in my life. I remember having less gold, though, and prices like that still shock me a bit.”

  She spun over and lay on his chest. “So, it’s regrets then?”

  “Not one.” Dunk’s lips met hers in another passionate kiss. “I just wondered what might happen next between us.”

  The afterglow faded from Spinne’s beautiful face. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  She sat up and moved to the edge of the bed. “This is just one last fling, right?” She started to put her clothes back on. “I’ve been down this road before. You’re leaving town. You want to see other people.”

  “Wait,” Dunk said, getting out of the bed and reaching for her. “That’s not it.”

  “Ah,” Spinne said, turning her shoulder to him. “It’s the old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ speech then.”

  “No,” Dunk said. “I want to be with you, I just—”

  “What?” She spun to face him, her flashing eyes the colour of a stormy sea.