“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Of course, if you did leave, my friends might decide we were better off without the rest of the Hackers. I’ve done my best to convince them otherwise, but they are rather… single-minded.”
Dunk stood up at that. “Are you saying you’ll kill the others if I leave?”
Only Deckem’s eyes smiled. “I would never say that, Mr. Hoffnung,” he said as he turned to leave. “But I would never say it couldn’t happen either. You’re a smart lad. Keep that in mind, would you?”
As Deckem left, Dunk slumped back into his seat, stunned. “What? What should I do? What am I going to do?”
“Barmaid!” Slick said, motioning for the waitress to bring them another round. “I think we’re going to be here a while!”
16
The kick-off for the Hackers’ next game went just as badly as the first — at least from Dunk’s point of view.
“Cracking!” Mon Jotson’s voice said over the PA system. “Over the past week, fans, I’ve done some research on the new darlings of our little ball. The Far Albion Cup has been kind to the Hackers so far. Their Casualties Inflicted per Game has skyrocketed since they arrived in fair Albion. If that last play is any indication, they’re on their way to bumping up their numbers once again!
“I see one, two, three — oh who can count them all? Some of them are in parts! There are at least five bodies in Mancaster Knighted uniforms scattered across the field.”
The news made Dunk feel sick. “How many did we lose?” he asked.
“One of Deckem’s men lost a leg,” Slick said. “But he seems to be doing fine.”
Dunk followed the halfling’s gaze over to where the team apothecary — a wizened old woman with a swing-down monocle attached to a black band around her head — sat stitching Swift’s leg back on at the knee. Even with it barely attached, the Hacker could still move the foot that had just been separated from him.
“Who are these guys?” Dunk asked. “Could you learn anything about them?”
Slick shook his head. “The whole country knows Deckem, but the rest of his contingent is a real mystery. Despite the fact they play great ball, no one’s ever heard of them before.”
Dunk spotted Lästiges standing in the corner of the Hacker’s dugout, behind Slick. He hadn’t seen her since the morning she’d raced from her bed, almost a week ago. For his part, that had been fine. He knew he hadn’t done anything wrong, but skating that close to the edge had upset him. If he hadn’t seen anything of the reporter until the trip back to the Old World — or even later than that — he would not have minded.
She nodded at him tentatively, her usual aggressive bravado put aside, at least for the moment. He knew he should go over and talk to her, clear the air between them, but now wasn’t the right time.
“How much longer do we have to put up with them?” Dunk asked.
“As long as we keep winning games, Mr. Hoffnung,” Pegleg said, slapping his starting thrower on the back. Dunk had never seen the ex-pirate happier.
“Coach,” Dunk said. “Some of us are worried about our new teammates. They’re a little — well, violent.” As the words spilled out of Dunk’s mouth, he regretted them. They sounded feeble even to his ears.
Pegleg laughed. “It’s a violent game,” he said. “People die. Or don’t you remember our last match in Magritta?”
Dunk nodded. He didn’t think he’d ever forget it.
“It’s a kill or be killed game, Dunk.” Pegleg’s manner had turned softer now. “If you’re going to play, it’s best to be on the side of the killers.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” Dunk said. “We could just play the game — outscore the other team.”
“A win is a win. I spent enough years with nothing but losses. I’ll take a win any way I can get it.”
“That’s the kind of attitude I like to hear, coach,” Deckem said, strolling up to where Pegleg stood over Dunk on the bench. The new blitzer wiped his bloodstained hands off on his jersey as he spoke. “A winning attitude.”
Dunk leapt to his feet and glared right into Deckem’s eyes. “If you’re such a winner, why’d you ever leave the game in the first place?” he asked. “Why’d you retire?”
Dark amusement danced in Deckem’s ice-blue eyes as he smirked at Dunk. “Strictly speaking, Mr. Hoffnung, I never did retire. I was killed.”
Dunk mulled that over. He’d long suspected that Deckem and his friends had long since felt the last beats of their own hearts. That wasn’t too unusual in Blood Bowl players though. The Champions of Death, the Erengrad Undertakers, the Zilargan Zombies, the Crimson Vampires — all of those teams featured all-undead rosters.
But they all had necromancers — sorcerers of death — as either coaches or owners too. Pegleg was many things — most of which he refused to share with his players — but he was no necromancer.
“Who brought you back?” Dunk asked. “Or did you manage that all by your lonesome?”
“Now, now, Mr. Hoffnung,” Deckem said as he jammed his bright yellow helmet back on to his head. “We all have our secrets. Let me keep mine, and I won’t pry too hard into yours.”
The new Hacker turned and sprinted back out on to the field, and the crowd went wild. Dunk looked up and saw Deckem’s grinning face on the Jumboball. The undead player spat something thick and black through the bars of his helmet, then winked right at the camra.
“What’s this?” Jotson’s voice said. “I think we may have a new record for the shortest game ever in the Far Albion Cup! Four of the remaining Knighted players are refusing to take the field!”
Dunk glanced across the gridiron to see the Knighted coach screaming at his reluctant players, but they were already on their way to the locker room. The fans booed and hurled full steins of beer at the players, which bounced off one Knighted’s helmet, but this only made the players who were left decide to join them.
“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Jotson said. “What cowards! This will forever be a blight on the unimpeachable honour of the great city of Mancaster and its much-vaunted Knighted. But wait! What’s this?”
Dunk stared off across the field at the Knighted coach as he tackled one of his own players. The crowd roared in delight as the coach tore the player’s helmet off and started to strip him of his uniform.
“Feefa’s spotted balls!” Jotson said. “It looks like Coach Fergus Alexson has decided to take out all his frustration on Team Captain Neville Rooney, and poor Rooney’s getting the worst of that matchup. Perhaps you’d have been safer on the pitch, Neville.”
“What is he doing, Dunkel?” M’Grash asked from over the thrower’s shoulder.
Dunk shook his head, amazed. He looked back and saw that all of the living Hackers were lined up behind him, staring out at the spectacle too. Deckem and his crew still stood down near the Hacker’s end zone, ready to kick the ball off again. None of the others had joined them yet.
“It looks like he’s stripping his own player down to his briefs.”
“He’s taking his uniform,” Carve said. “For himself.”
“What?” Guillermo said. “Why would he do something as insane as that?”
“The game’s not over yet,” Simon said. “Fergie hasn’t forfeited yet, and the ref hasn’t called it.”
“What ref?” Slick asked sarcastically.
Edgar remained silent, but Dunk thought he detected a guilty look on his wooden face.
“Dear Nuffle,” Pegleg said, his voice heavy with awe. “He’s going out there himself.”
The living Hackers all turned to goggle at their coach, and then went back to watching Coach Alexson kick his battered player away from him and start to put on the stripped uniform, starting with the pads. The crowd fell silent for a moment, unable to understand what it was that Alexson had in mind. When Alexson slammed Rooney’s helmet onto his head and trotted out onto the gridiron though, they went nuts.
The Jumboball showed the Kn
ighted coach charging onto the field and getting ready to receive the kick-off. When the roar of the crowd died down enough that Dunk could hear again, Jotson’s voice spoke. “This is inconceivable, yet not entirely unexpected. If you could ever expect any coach to stand up for the honour of his team, it would be Fergie. Even with all of his players abandoning him, he stands unwilling to surrender. He prefers death to dishonour.”
The image on the Jumboball switched to that of Deckem glaring down the field at Fergie and cracking his knuckles. The other Hackers on the field mirrored his actions.
“And if Deckem has his way, Fergie will get his wish. Oh, the drama! The Knighted coach — one of Albion’s favourite sons — faces five of the killer Hackers — invaders from the Old World! While you have to admire such gumption, you can’t imagine that old Alexson has a chance here. Farewell, Fergie, it is then! We’ll remember you well!”
“No,” M’Grash said, frowning and shaking his head.
Dunk knew just what the ogre meant. “We can’t let them do this.”
“What’s that, mate?” Simon said. No one but Slick and M’Grash had been able to hear Dunk over the roar of the crowd.
“We can’t let them do this!” Dunk shouted. “We have to stop it.” He looked to the others for support.
M’Grash bore a grin into which he could have stuffed a pig. The more restrained Slick nodded in approval. Guillermo and Simon goggled at Dunk as if he’d suddenly sprouted another head that had begun reciting epic poetry in a long-forgotten tongue. Edgar looked aghast. The unreadable Cavre’s face remained impassive, betraying no thoughts at all.
In stark contrast, Pegleg was livid. His fiery glare forbade Dunk to do anything unusual here. “Belay that, Mr. Hoffnung,” he snarled. “If you take one step on to that field, you’ll be warming the bench for the rest of the game.”
Dunk locked eyes with the ex-pirate. There was no doubt that Pegleg meant to threaten much worse than that. The game would be over here in minutes anyway, one way or the other. Then Dunk looked up at the Jumboball.
There, framed in the giant crystal, crouched Fergus Alexson. Dunk had never seen the man play before, but he’d heard about the man’s reputation as a coach. Despite his greying hair, he had the fit and ready body of an athlete, someone who trained alongside his players. But there was no doubt in Dunk’s mind that Deckem and his pals would tear Fergie apart in a matter of seconds.
Dunk strode out onto the gridiron and walked straight toward Deckem. The crowd — thinking that Dunk was going to help his teammates annihilate Fergie — booed.
“Hello, Mr. Hoffnung!” Deckem said over the noise. “Come to take your place with the winners?”
“You can’t do this,” Dunk said. “This is pointless. That man doesn’t need to die.”
“But he does,” Deckem said. “Killing him sends a message to everyone that there’s nothing the Hackers aren’t willing to do to win.”
“You’re not a Hacker,” Dunk said. “I don’t care if you wear the uniform. You’re a disgrace to it.”
“I think that’s up to Coach Pegleg,” Deckem said, “not you. He seems to appreciate my efforts, no matter how crude my methods may be.”
“He’s not here right now. I’m telling you to stop it.”
Half amused, Deckem raised an eyebrow at this. “No. Now get out of my way, or I’ll kill you too.”
Dunk had learned a lot of things in his misspent youth. As two sons of nobility, he and his brother Dirk had wandered through many of the slums of Altdorf, looking for trouble, for some excitement in their safe and placid lives. They’d found plenty of it, and sometimes a brawl came arm in arm with it.
Many times, Dirk had thrown the first punch, starting the whole fight — or so it seemed. This irritated Dunk for a long time, as he didn’t care for fighting like Dirk did, so one day he confronted him about it.
“Why do you always start all these fights?” Dunk asked him one night over a bottle of Bugman’s Best Ale in their favourite hole in the wall, a dive called the Skinned Cat.
Dirk just smiled. “I don’t start any of the fights. I finish them.”
“You know what I mean. You always hit the other guy first.”
Dirk sipped his beer and smiled. “When I’m standing nose to nose with a guy like that, do you think there’s going to be a fight?”
“There always is.”
“And who do you think is going to win that fight?”
“Usually it’s you.”
“Always,” Dirk said, raising a finger. “I always win. You know why? Because I hit first.”
“But you could just walk away.”
“You think that guy’s just going to let me walk away? What about that orc in the Full Moon the other night. Think he’d have just let me traipse out of the pub?”
“But—”
“But, nothing. He’d have clocked me from behind, and you’d have ended up carrying me home that night.”
“I did.”
“Those victory celebrations do sometimes get out of hand.” Dirk smiled at the memory. Then he turned serious again. “Instead, I hit him first. He starts the fight wounded, one good hit behind me. I may not be the biggest dog on the block. I may not be the best fighter. But give me an edge like that, and I’ll come out on top every time.”
These thoughts shot through Dunk’s head as Deckem stood nose to nose with him, daring him to try to stop him. Dunk reached out and put his hands on Deckem’s shoulders. The new player glanced down at his arms and said, “I’m really not in the mood for a hug.”
Dunk pulled the man to him and drove his head forward at the same time. His head-butt smashed Deckem’s nose flat and cracked his head back so hard Dunk thought he felt the man’s neck break. When he let go of Deckem’s shoulders, the man collapsed to the Astrogranite.
The crowd cheered louder than ever.
As Dunk stepped back from where Deckem sat, the man’s four friends started toward the thrower. Dunk knew he had no hope to take them all on at once. While he’d been able to surprise Deckem, these four were alert, ready, and not going to wait for him to attack.
“Now, guys, can’t we talk about this?” he said, getting ready to turn and run. He thought he might be able to outdistance them in a short sprint to the Hackers’ dugout. As undead, though, they wouldn’t tire and would catch him if the chase went on for long.
Then Dunk felt the earth move beneath his feet, a low, thrumming he felt through his boots. He recognised it from dozens of games, and he grinned. He glanced over his shoulder to see M’Grash and Edgar stampeding toward him, rushing to his aid. Cavre, Guillermo, and Simon raced along behind them, unable to match their long-legged pace.
“Do not hurt Dunkel!” the ogre roared. “He’s my friend!”
“Incredible!” Jotson’s voice said. “Now it’s the Hackers against the Hackers! Perhaps Fergie has a chance after all.”
The crowd cheered the thought, and Dunk saw an image of himself grinning, gazing out from the Jumboball. For a moment, seeing his head forty feet tall stunned him, but then Dickens lunged at him.
Dunk dived to the side. He refused to get into a fair fight with Dickens or any of the rest of Deckem’s cronies. He’d seen them take apart nearly a dozen players already, and he had no desire to be the next notch on their collective belt.
Dickens flew past him and skidded along the ground. Before he came to a stop, M’Grash picked him up and hauled him into the air. The ogre held the man so that their noses almost touched. Dickens’ feet kicked out wildly, hitting nothing, as he dangled in the air.
“Don’t!” M’Grash shouted into Dickens’ face.
Dickens twisted about like a hanged man trying to wriggle out of his noose. Then something popped loose, and he fell to the ground, leaving his helmet in M’Grash’s meaty hand.
It took Dunk a moment to realise that Dickens’ head was still in his helmet.
“Well,” Jotson said. “Would you look at that? That’s going to leave a mark.”<
br />
The crowd roared its approval.
M’Grash peered into the helmet through its faceguard and screamed in surprise. Without thinking — something the ogre rarely did — M’Grash flung the helmet away, and it went sailing into the stands.
Dunk stared in horror, but even before Dickens’ occupied helmet landed something hit the thrower from behind. He spun around in the green-armed grasp to find Swift tackling him to the ground.
They hit the Astrogranite hard, and Dunk felt Swift’s fingers reaching for his throat. He turned and smashed a spiked elbow pad into the man’s forehead, and there it stuck for a moment before he could wrestle it back out.
“Crikey! You don’t see a brawl like that every day,” Jotson said. “Well, not between team-mates, at least. Ur, on the field.”
“Still, it’s one cracking good fight! And wait! One of the Hackers has broken loose from the brawl and is racing toward Fergie!”
Dunk glanced up at the Jumboball and saw Deckem sprinting away down the field. The hapless Fergie stood there in his ill-fitting gear, fists balled, chin out, and ready to face his foe.
“No!” Dunk shouted. He was too far away, though, and Swift’s death grip around his middle meant he couldn’t even stand. The other living Hackers were too busy fighting with the dead ones to be able to stop Deckem either.
“This is it, blokes,” Jotson said. “When — I mean, if — Deckem knackers Fergie, that’s it for the game. If Mancaster can’t field a single player for its team, the game is over!”
“No!” Dunk twisted Swift’s head around hard enough that he was looking the other way. This didn’t slow the undead player down at all, but it kept him from seeing what he was doing. Dunk pried himself loose from the effectively blinded Swift’s fingers and scrambled to his feet. He launched himself down Deckem’s path. He’d be too late to stop the new Hacker, of course, but maybe he could still avenge a good man’s death.
In the Jumboball, Dunk saw Deckem stalking toward the Mancaster coach, who stood his ground, unwilling to run although he faced certain death. Deckem smiled so broadly that, even by way of the Jumboball, Dunk could see his too-white teeth behind his helmet.
[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball Page 16