[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball

by Matt Forbeck - (ebook by Undead)

  The sandy-haired Deckem stood an inch taller than Dunk, but massed a stone less. He moved with a dancer’s grace, seeming to always be on the tips of his toes, every gesture a study in economy and grace. The thing that struck Dunk the most, though, was the shade of Deckem’s eyes, which were the icy blue of an arctic sky.

  “Mr. Deckem is the finest football player in all of Albion,” Olsen said.

  “Ah, to be damned with such faint praise,” Slick said, sliding around from behind Dunk to take his place at the great, round table in the centre of the courtyard. He immediately started in again on a plate filled with half-demolished fruits and pastries.

  Dunk glanced around and saw that the rest of the Hackers were there. Guillermo and Simon chatted on one side of the table, while Cavre sat quietly with M’Grash on the other. Behind the table, in the far corner of the courtyard, Pegleg stood talking to a group of fit-looking men dressed in clothes identical to Deckem’s. Dunk didn’t see Lästiges anywhere, but that suited him fine.

  “Permit me to introduce you to my compatriots,” Deckem said, ignoring Slick’s comment. With Olsen at his side, he led Dunk over to the men standing around Pegleg. The circle of the group parted without a word to admit the three newcomers.

  Deckem spoke, pointing to each of his doubles in turn as he did. “Mr. Hoffnung, I’m pleased to present your new team-mates: Oliver Dickens, Lemuel Swift, Long John Stevenson, and Victor Shelley.”

  Each of the men shook Dunk’s hand without a word, just the same hint of a smile on their faces.

  “Team-mates?” Dunk asked, puzzled.

  “Mr. Deckem and his friends here have come to fill out our roster,” Pegleg said with an unreserved smile.

  “Really?” Dunk raised his eyebrows. “How did you know we needed anyone?”

  “Word about such famous Blood Bowlers as yourself travels fast,” Deckem said, “at least among Albion’s own aspirants.”

  Dunk nodded. They’d only been in Albion for just over a day, but plenty of people had seen them arrive in the Sea Chariot. He’d been surprised at the absolute lack of any kind of reception then, so he thought he should be pleased to know that someone had finally recognised them. When he looked into Deckem’s eyes, though, he couldn’t conjure that emotion.

  “I understand your surprise,” Deckem said. “Under normal circumstances, we would have waited, given you some time to acclimatise yourself to your new surroundings. Time, however, is a luxury we no longer have.”

  “The Far Albion Cup tournament starts in Wallington in less than a week,” Pegleg said. “If we’re to take part, we need to start practising today.”

  “You really think we can manage this, coach?” Dunk asked. “Even with our new recruits here, we only have eleven players. Isn’t that cutting it a little close?”

  Deckem put a hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “Do not fret, Mr. Hoffnung. My friends and I have promised not to hurt you. If we need more players at game time, we can procure them.”

  “Does that work for you, Dunk?” Pegleg asked.

  Dunk shrugged. “Do I have a choice in the matter, coach?”

  A toothy smile on his face, the ex-pirate slapped Dunk on the back. “None at all! See, you are learning.”

  “Ah, my little boy is growing up,” Slick said around a mouthful of jam-slathered crumpet. “A rookie no longer. I’m so proud.”

  The week sailed past before Dunk could get his bearings. Pegleg and Cavre worked the team from dusk till dawn, with only short breaks between. These were mostly for drinks of water. In the evening, the innkeepers stuffed them full of bland, starchy foods served alongside large slabs of steak.

  Over one lunch, Dunk noticed that the newcomers all ate their steaks nearly raw. “Is that where the term ‘bloody’ comes from?” he asked Simon later while waiting for their turn on the makeshift obstacle course Cavre had set up at their impromptu training camp. This was held in an open park nearest to the nameless pub the Hackers had adopted as their Albion home.

  “Nah. It’s just that many chaps around these parts prefer their meat to still be mooing when served. ‘The rawer, the better’ they say.”

  Dunk shook his head. “Do they eat other meats the same way? Like chicken? Or fish?”

  Simon snorted. “Blood Bowlers make enough money that they don’t have to eat anything but steak. Raw fish? Around here we call that ‘bait’!”

  “Mr. Sherwood! Mr. Hoffnung!”

  The two snapped their heads around to see Pegleg glaring at them. “Yes, coach?” they said in unison.

  “This isn’t a knitting circle for little old ladies. You can blather on to each other in your own time. Right now, I want to see five laps around the park from each of you.”

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  “Make it ten!”

  “Right, coach!” Dunk said, grabbing Simon and pulling him along after him before Pegleg increased their punishment again.

  “So this is Kingsbury,” Dunk said, craning his neck around from the deck of the Sea Chariot as it docked at the city’s largest pier, within throwing distance of the largest palace the young man had ever seen. “Impressive.”

  “Sure,” Slick said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “There’s an impressive amount of sewage floating in the river. And an impressive haze of soot in the impressively rain-filled air. And an impressive smell wafting from farther inland.”

  “The Mootland I’m sure it’s not,” Slick said, “but that’s what happens when you get so many people packed together in a single place.”

  “We suppose you’d prefer we Albionmen all lived in dirty, little warrens like you wee folk,” Olsen said.

  “Only because it would make it easier to bury you all alive,” Slick retorted. “This town is an abomination.”

  “What about the palace?” Dunk said. “Look at those towers stabbing into the sky. Have you ever seen anything that tall?”

  “Seems to me the sign of a sovereign who’s overcompensating for some other shortcoming, if you follow me, son.” Slick hacked on the thick air. “How are you going to be able to play in this stuff without losing a lung?”

  “Don’t you fret about that, Mr. Fullbelly,” Cavre said. “The Buckingham Bowl where the Far Albion Cup games are held is enchanted to provide clear air and good weather at all times.”

  “How’d they manage that?” Slick said. “You’d think if they could afford to clean up the area around the stadium they’d at least do the same for the King’s own palace.”

  “The BBC paid for it, of course,” Simon said.

  “BBC?”

  “Boring-Brilliant Cabalvision. They broadcast all the games. If the air around the stadium was like it is here in the Smoke, their subscribers wouldn’t be able to see a thing.”

  “They’re both boring and brilliant?” Dunk asked.

  Deckem arrived at the railing and slipped into the conversation. It struck Dunk that he was the only one of the new recruits he’d ever heard speak. “Those were the names of the founders: Billy Boring and Bobby Brilliant.”

  “You have to be kidding,” Lästiges said. The camra circled her head at high speed, trying to fan the stench away.

  “You can’t make stuff like this up, Miss Weibchen.”

  The crowd roared as the Hackers took the field for their first game in the Far Albion Cup. By this time, Dunk’s sense of smell had already gone dead. The night before, at dinner, he’d realised that this was why the Albionmen ate such bland food. With their noses so effectively deadened, what was the point in making flavourful meals? No one could taste them anyway.

  Here in the Buckingham Bowl, though, under its protective enchantments, his senses came alive again. He inhaled the crisp, clean air through his nose, and a smile spread across his face.

  “I love the smell of Astrogranite in the morning,” Guillermo said as he trotted out onto the gridiron beside Dunk, stripes of black painted under his eyes, in the way of all of Nuffle’s faithful. “It smells like — hey, I can smell again!”
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  Dunk grinned under his helmet. He wore the war paint too, although for him it was purely a practical matter. The black paint cut down on the glare of the sun under his eyes, which made it easier for him to look for a catcher downfield. He didn’t believe in Nuffle or any of the dozens of other gods worshipped across the Old World and beyond. He wasn’t above using their best tricks for himself though.

  A voice echoed out over the stadium’s Preternatural Announcement system. “And, all the way in from the Empire, please give a warm, Albion welcome to the Bad Bay Hackers!”

  An image of a man dressed in a sheepskin coat stared down at the stadium from the Jumboball on the north end of the field. Dunk shuddered as he looked at the thing, not from the man’s wild grin but the memory of his last encounter with such a device. Fortunately, this Jumboball weighed in smaller than the one in the Spike! Magazine Tournament, and it sat on a large, round pedestal instead of the easily sabotaged legs that had held up the one in Magritta.

  “That’s Mon Jotson,” Simon said proudly. “He’s a living legend around here. He’s been commenting on our games for hundreds of years.”

  Dunk looked carefully at the man and detected the telltale pointiness to his ears and other features that labelled him an elf. His brown hair looked like it had long ago formed into a helmet itself, as it stayed perfectly rigid in the winds that flapped the flags standing behind him. He wore a pair of wide, round spectacles with wooden rims that seemed to turn his face into that of an owl.

  “Yessir,” Jotson said, “it’s not every day we get a visitor from out of town to play in the finest tournament in our land. The last one I remember was from just last year at this very event. The Evil Gitz, as they were called, only lasted a single round before our fine gentlemen from the Kent Kickers bought them a one-way ticket back home.”

  Dunk laughed.

  “That’s no joke, Mr. Hoffnung,” Deckem said as he waved to the crowd. Even in a Hackers green-and-gold uniform, the man seemed to be dressed all in black. He exuded the colour in everything he did and said. “The Kickers are the wealthiest team in the land. They paid off enough of the Gits that the visitors had to forfeit the game.”

  “Aren’t we playing them today?” Dunk asked.

  Cavre nodded. “They already tried to buy us off,” he said. “Pegleg refused to talk with them unless they were willing to match the tournament’s grand prize.”

  “Why would they do that?” Dunk said.

  Cavre slapped the thrower on his right shoulder pad. “Now you’re catching on, Mr. Hoffnung.”

  As team captain, Cavre met the leader of the Kickers in the middle of the field for the coin toss. He called “Eagles” and won. The Hackers swarmed down to the south end of the field to receive the kick-off.

  The ball came sailing down the field toward Dunk, and he called for the catch. Before the ball reached him, though, Deckem dashed forward and plucked it from the air.

  Dunk tried to protest, but Deckem sprinted up the field before Dunk could even open his mouth. All he could do was chase the new blitzer up the field and try to help.

  As the first of the Kickers — dressed all in blue with a white helmet that featured a blue boot on each side — reached Deckem, the oncoming player launched himself into the air and aimed a vicious kick at the new Hacker’s head. Deckem dodged the attack neatly, and drilled his opponent straight in the groin with a powerful jab of his free hand. The player dropped to the ground, writhing in pain.

  Before the next Kicker could try to tackle Deckem, Swift and Dickens came at him from both sides, crushing him between them. Blood burst between the bars in the Kicker’s faceguard, and he fell to the Astrogranite and did not move again.

  “Ouch!” Jotson’s voice said. “That sort of killing blow could really hurt someone!”

  Another Kicker charged up and hurled a roundhouse kick at Deckem. Anticipating the attack, Deckem spun and pitched the ball backward to M’Grash, who bobbled it a few times before tucking it into the palm of his hand. Then he turned to block the Kicker still coming at him.

  Deckem reached up and caught the Kicker’s foot as it sailed through the air at him. In a single, smooth motion, he spun around, using the Kicker’s momentum to slam him into the Astrogranite. Then he grabbed the Kicker’s helmet and gave his neck a sharp, horrible twist.

  At that point, Dunk lost track of the new Hacker. A trio of Kickers came straight at M’Grash, doing their level best to knock the ogre to the ground. M’Grash snarled at them, and Dunk noticed a dark, wet patch appear in the front of one player’s pants.

  “We don’t see too many ogres in the Far Albion League,” said Jotson’s voice. “From the looks of Major’s uniform, he may have just encountered his first!”

  As they’d done in practice countless times, M’Grash swivelled back and handed the ball off to Dunk. The thrower tucked the ball under his arm and followed the ogre into the fray. There were few players as accomplished at blocking as M’Grash. He had a way of clearing a runner’s path that none of the other Hackers could match.

  While M’Grash made quick work of most of the Kickers who came his way, Dunk knew that one of them would eventually figure out how to get around the ogre and attack the ball carrier: him. He kept his eyes open downfield, hunting for a team-mate who was open for a pass.

  To his surprise, a tree stood in the end zone. He’d seen a lot of strange things on the various fields on which the Hacker’s had played, but most of them had gone to great lengths to remove large obstacles like that, especially in the end zone. The Athelorn Avengers’ home field sat atop the Great Tree of the Greenwood, of course, but even that only had a few large branches that stuck through from below.

  For a moment, Dunk wondered why someone had draped the tree in green and gold cloth. Perhaps a Hackers fan had gone to the trouble to decorate it. Then the tree waved its upper branches at Dunk, and the thrower realised he was looking straight at Edgar.

  Dunk cocked back his arm to chuck the ball into Edgar’s waiting branches. Just then, though, a Kicker dashed through between M’Grash’s trunk-like legs and barrelled straight at him.

  Dunk snarled at his challenger and tucked the ball under his left arm. With his right, he lashed out at the Kicker and smashed him in his exposed throat. The man collapsed, clutching his dented windpipe, and Dunk had to repress the strong urge to finish him off while he was down.

  The feeling disturbed Dunk. He’d never been a dirty player. Sure, he knew the rules in Blood Bowl were more of a set of loosely followed suggestions, but he didn’t believe he had to hurt people just to win games.

  Right now, though, it was all he could do to pull himself away from murdering the hapless Kicker sprawled out before him. It would only take one, short move, and the Kickers would be down one more player. If that might help the Hackers win the game, wasn’t it the right thing to do? If he really wanted to win, shouldn’t he be willing to pull out all the stops?

  Dunk pushed those thoughts aside and stepped back into the open area that M’Grash always left in his wake. He cocked his arm back and hurled the ball down the field. It spiralled smoothly through the air, arcing up into the sky like a shooting star and then landing square in Edgar’s branches.

  “Touchdown!” Jotson shouted. “Our aggressive guests take the early lead from our proxy hosts, the Kickers. If things stay like this, there will be no stopping them!”

  Somewhere, a referee blew a whistle and signalled the score. M’Grash scooped Dunk up in his arms and trotted back over to the Hacker bench, where he set the thrower down.

  “Excellent work, men!” Pegleg said, almost crowing with delight. “Perhaps it’s true what they say about the team who owns the Far Albion Cup. You look unbeatable out there!”

  “Oh, dear,” Jotson’s voice said. “A few of the Kickers would be more than just depressed about that last score if they weren’t too dead to care. I count five casualties on the field, and a sixth — that’s Clive Keegan, hometown favourite — being carted o
ff the field with what looks like a crushed windpipe. We’ll have to check in with the Kicker apothecary to see what his chances are for coming back into the game.”

  Dunk’s stomach sank at the news.

  “Fantastic!” Pegleg said, happier than ever. “Now they only have ten players left. The only thing better than taking the lead is doing it while crushing your foes’ bodies and spirits!” The coach’s face turned sharp. “How are you all doing?”

  Dunk knew what Pegleg was getting at. In games this bloody, it was rare for the damage to be one-sided. Once the initial victims figured out what kind of game they were in, they usually tossed all compunction out of the stadium and worked the bloodletting angle as hard as they could.

  The thrower turned to see one of the new players, Shelley, cradling his left arm. When Dunk looked closer to see what was wrong, he noticed it was no longer attached at the elbow. Despite this, Shelley seemed able to ignore the pain.

  “Are you okay?” Dunk asked.

  Deckem answered. “He’ll be fine. Just give him a few minutes. He’ll be set to play in time for the next kick-off.”

  Dunk goggled at the new Hacker. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I never kid.”

  15

  Dunk said nothing to Pegleg, and no one else seemed to notice Shelley’s injury. The thrower wanted to see how Shelley could possibly take the field again in this game. Despite what Deckem had promised, Dunk didn’t think a player missing an arm would be much good to anyone.

  By the time the Hackers were ready for the next kick-off, though, Shelley seemed fine. He even waved at Dunk with the arm that the thrower had seen detached just a moment before. He wondered if he could have been mistaken about the extent of Shelley’s injuries. After all, Dunk always spent every Blood Bowl game pumped on adrenaline, and he guessed it might have made him see things that weren’t there.