“Money isn’t everything,” Dunk said.
“Spoken like a nobleman’s son,” the coach said, scowling. “You’re right!” he continued as he leapt to his feet and stabbed his hook into the desk’s mahogany surface. “It’s the only thing!”
“Coach.”
“Mr. Hoffnung. As long as I am the coach and you are the player, you will respect my decisions!”
Dunk noticed that Pegleg’s hook was caught where he’d embedded it in the top of the desk. The ex-pirate tried to twist it free, but he was stuck. This took the wind from his sails, and he sat back down in his chair, the hook still jammed into the wood between them.
“Dunk,” Pegleg said, his manner softer, more reasonable. “This isn’t like the last time. Mr. Merlin has assured me of that. He believes he can control the cup and its effects.”
“But can he control our new players?”
“That is my responsibility, although he seemed to do a fine job of it last time.” He narrowed his eyes at Dunk. “You might recall how it went.”
The door to the office swung open, and Dunk had to step aside to avoid it hitting him. There, framed in the entrance, stood the two Game Wizards who had stalked Dunk through much of the previous season: Blaque and Whyte.
Despite the fact that Whyte was an elf and Blaque was a dwarf, the two stood equally tall. As pale as Ishmael, but with white teeth and blue eyes, Whyte had never smiled that Dunk had seen. He didn’t know if the elf even could.
Blaque, on the other hand, smiled all the time but in a wry, sarcastic way. He looked like he’d been carved from a mountain and covered with hair the colour of the coal mined from the range’s roots.
Like Whyte, he wore a crisp-pressed GW uniform: a dark robe sashed with a crimson rope, a frothing wolf’s head embroidered across the chest.
“What a happy reunion this is, don’t you agree, Whyte?” the dwarf said with a smarmy grin. “All of us back together again. It’s just like old times.”
“I can’t say I care for old times,” the elf said solemnly. “They weren’t all that good either.”
“What can I do for you, gentle wizards?” Pegleg said. He gave one last tug on his hook, subtly enough that the GWs might not notice, but Dunk saw that he was still stuck.
“The Far Albion Cup,” Blaque said. “We’re here to take it.”
“I’m afraid that’s not possible.” The ex-pirate showed a savage smile that exposed his golden teeth.
“What do you think?” Blaque asked Whyte. “Does he have much of an imagination?”
“I’d hazard not,” Whyte said. “People with an imagination know that all sorts of things are possible.”
“It’s not going to happen,” Pegleg said, the smile fading from his face.
“See, now this is where my imagination starts to kick in,” Blaque said. “I can imagine all sorts of ways that this can happen.”
He stuck out one stubby finger. “First, you can give it to us peacefully, and we’ll quietly take it away.”
He stuck out another finger. “Second, we can take it from your bloody corpse.”
The dwarf looked at the elf, concerned. “Actually, that’s it for me. I’m all out. You have any other notions?”
“You’re the one with the imagination. Those sound like fine options to me.”
“You’re not taking the cup, and you will not lay a finger on me.” The coach looked a lot more confident about his pronouncement than Dunk felt.
“Interesting,” Blaque said, chewing a chubby lip. “Seems he does have a wild imagination after all.”
“That cup is the property of the Hackers, and its use falls within the rules as laid down by Sacred Commissioner Roze-El, directly from Nuffle’s Book. If you take it from me — or lay a hand on me or any of my players to try it — I’ll report you directly to Ruprecht Murdark himself.”
“Murdark’s not here this time, is he?” Blaque said. “By the time he asks us what happened, they’ll be laying flowers on your grave. What kind do you think we should send?”
“Lilies,” Whyte said. “I always like lilies.”
A wide grin grew on Pegleg’s face as he looked past the Game Wizards and into the locker room beyond. “Welcome, Mr. Merlin,” he said. “Do you happen to know these two? Allow me to introduce—”
As the two GWs turned to see who Pegleg was talking to, the Albionish wizard bared his teeth at them in an unfriendly way. “Only by reputation, laddie, but that’s enough for us.” He glared at the two shorter wizards in turn, fingering the wand in his hand as he spoke. “Listen to us, you two charlatans. Blackguards like you may be able to intimidate the ignorant with your parlour tricks, but we are not impressed. If we catch you talking with our employer again, we’re going to assume you’re up to no good and fry you on the spot.”
He paused for a moment to measure the looks on the other wizards’ faces. “Is that clear?”
Blaque jerked his head toward the door, and Whyte headed for it. Olsen stepped aside to let him pass, and the dwarf followed after him. Once he was out of the office, Blaque turned back and said, “We’re not through with this yet.”
Olsen barked a sharp, short laugh. “Faith! Of course not, laddie. It won’t end until you force our hand.” He stuffed his wand back into his robes. “Then it’ll be over before you know it.”
“He said he’d meet you here?” Slick asked, gazing around the Skinned Cat.
Dunk nodded, as he nursed his pint of Bugman’s XXXXXX. It looked the same as ever: rough-hewn tables and chairs that looked like they’d been used more often as weapons than furniture, sawdust on the floor to soak up the spilled beer and vomit and blood.
It was the kind of seedy joint in which the patrons kept to themselves and minded their own business. The tourists in town for the Blood Bowl mostly stayed clear of this part of town, as it had a deserved reputation for being deadly dangerous. When Dunk had lived as a boy here in Altdorf, he would never have considered entering such a place, except in his most adventurous daydreams.
If anyone recognised Dunk as a Blood Bowl player here, they refused to admit it, and that was just what he wanted: a measure of anonymity. When the Blood Bowl Open came to town, a kind of madness invaded the city, carried in the hearts of the hundreds of thousands of fans in town for the games. Not all of them could manage to get tickets, but that deterred no one. Just being close to the stadiums when the games were being played was enough. That’s why the Skinned Cat had become such a precious place to Dunk, a haven in which he could escape — at least for a little while — the insanity running rampant through Altdorf.
“There he is now,” Dunk said as he got to his feet. There, framed in the lamplight streaming in through the open doorway, stood Dirk.
Dunk hadn’t always got along well with his younger brother Dirk. They hadn’t spoken much after Dirk left home to join the Reavers. That had only changed in the past year, when Dunk had followed in his prodigal brother’s footsteps. Around this time last year, during the previous Blood Bowl Open, Dunk had felt like they really were brothers, in every sense of the word, for the first time since he could remember.
Now, looking at his brother’s solemn face, he feared all that had been lost, perhaps forever.
“Dunk,” the younger man said as he approached. He looked well but worn, which was no surprise, as he’d played in a Blood Bowl game with the Reavers just hours before. A shallow cut under his left eye had been expertly stitched and looked to already be healing well. Still, he neither stuck out his hand nor opened his arms wide in greeting. He just took one of the open chairs at the table and sat down.
Dunk nodded and sat down as well, signalling for the barmaid’s attention as he did. “What’ll you have?”
“Got any Hogshead in this hellhole?”
“Sorry,” the barmaid said without a trace of remorse. She was a hardbitten woman who looked tough enough to play for the Hackers herself. “They went out of business.”
“Really?” Dirk said. “I
thought they made the official beer of the GWs.”
“Used to be. They drink Green Ronin nowadays.”
Dirk nodded at that, and the barmaid sauntered off.
“So,” Dunk said.
“So,” said Dirk.
“Can we cut the chit-chat, boys?” Slick said. “This is painful enough to just watch. You’re brothers, for pity’s sake. This is over a woman — Lästiges, for the love of Nuffle.”
“Hey!” Dirk said.
The halfling threw up his hands in surrender and then looked at both of the men in turn. “Can’t you just shake hands and make up.”
Dirk scrutinised Dunk. “Can we do that?”
“I’d like that,” Dunk said.
“After what you did…” Dirk shook his head ruefully.
Dunk protested. “This is all just a horrible misunder—”
Dirk cut off his older brother with a sweep of his hand. “Oh,” he said, a grin spreading across his face, “I know.”
Dunk paused in the middle of running through the explanation he’d been preparing ever since he’d got Dirk’s message asking for this meeting. He cocked his head at his brother, looking deep into his so-familiar eyes, and said, “What?”
“I know,” Dirk said, sitting back with a smirk on his face. “Lästiges broke into my room earlier this week and forced me to watch the unedited footage of the night you ended up in bed together.” He shook his head and cackled. “You weren’t a threat to anyone’s honour that night — not even your own.”
Dunk sat back in his chair, stunned.
The barmaid shoved a tall, greenish beer in front of Dirk. As opaque as a stout, it carried a thick, full head. Dirk grabbed the beer and took a huge slug of it into his mouth.
Dirk’s eyes bulged out of his head, and for a moment Dunk thought he might spray the table with whatever swam around in his mouth. Dirk managed to keep it down, though, swallowing hard, and then gasping for air.
“This is less bitter?” he said, his eyes watering.
“You want me to get you something else?” Dunk asked, already looking for the barmaid again.
Dirk stared at the top of the beer for a moment, and then took another tentative sip. “No,” he said. “I actually like it. It grows on you fast.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” Then he glared at his brother. “But if you’re okay with all this, why did you make me suffer for so long?”
Dirk made a face at his beer before taking another drink. He shook his head like a wet dog drying itself, then smiled at Dunk. “Hey, just because nothing happened doesn’t mean it couldn’t have. You still needed to pay for it — if only just a little.”
“You son of a—”
“Yes, my brother?” Dirk said innocently.
Dunk tried to come up with something horrible to say, but as the words rolled around in his mouth, struggling to come out in the right order, a shout pierced the background noise of the tavern and drove itself straight into his brain.
“Dunkel Hoffnung!” the voice said. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face around here!”
24
Dunk’s head snapped around to see Spinne standing just inside the doorway, glaring at him with the intensity of an angry valkyrie sent down to haul his sorry carcass back up to the heavens for judgment. She had her long, strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a warrior’s braid, and her blue-grey eyes burned with a hellish intensity. She stomped over to him on her long, athletic legs and parted her wide, full lips to snarl down at him.
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
Dunk stood up in her face, took her into his arms, and planted a long, loving kiss square on her mouth. Her arms came up and wrapped around his neck, and to his delight they held him in a gentle, non-strangling way. For those precious seconds, the months they’d been apart seemed to melt away.
When they finally parted, moments later, she wore a wild, happy smile. “What was that—?” Then she glared down at Dirk. “You told him, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t help it,” Dirk said, pointing at the greenish glass in front of him. “It was the beer.”
Spinne narrowed her eyes at him and then at Dunk. “I want you to know, I’m still mad at you. You never should have put yourself in that kind of position.”
“What kind of position?”
“The kind that lands you in bed with another woman so that it can be broadcast on a Cabalvision special.”
Dunk grinned. “So, as long as there aren’t any camras…?”
She cut him off with another kiss. “Don’t press your luck.” She broke free from their embrace then, and they sat down next to each other, with Spinne between Dunk and Dirk.
“So,” Slick said, “one big happy family again, eh? That calls for another round.” He signalled the barmaid again.
“Add a Black Widow to the order if you don’t mind,” Lästiges said, as she appeared from a darkened booth in a distant corner of the tavern’s main room. She winked at Dunk, and he realised she’d been watching him the whole time.
“I spoke too soon,” Slick said with a wince. Despite this, he relayed Lästiges’ request to the barmaid too.
“I’m so glad you’re all here,” Dunk said, looking Spinne and Dirk in the eyes, measuring them up. “I have a special favour to ask of you, and I don’t know exactly how to put it.”
“Go ahead,” Spinne said, holding his hand. “After this debacle, I think we can take it.”
Dirk nodded eagerly.
Dunk screwed up his courage and said, “The Reavers need to drop out of the tournament.”
Everyone at the table froze, staring at Dunk. Only Slick seemed to understand what Dunk meant, and he hid behind his empty stein of beer rather than stand between Dunk and his friends.
“You’re insane,” Dirk said. He turned to Slick. “Did he get his bell rung in the game today? He’s not making any sense.”
Lästiges didn’t say a word. She just frowned at Dunk and drummed the long, red fingernails of one hand on the battle-scarred tabletop.
“What are you talking about?” Spinne said, her brow furrowed with concern.
Dunk took a deep breath. He knew this wouldn’t be an easy sell, but he had to try. “You two saw Lästiges’ documentary.” Both Spinne and Dirk scowled at this.
“The whole thing,” Dunk added quickly. “You know about the Far Albion Cup, right? Well, we — the Hackers — still have it. And it’s just as dangerous here as it ever was in Albion, maybe more so.”
“What’s your point?” Dirk said. “With that fancy goblet, the Hackers are unbeatable, so we shouldn’t even try?”
Dunk nodded. “Yes! But that’s not all. It’s not just that we can’t be defeated. It’s that we’ll kill most of the other players who make it on to the field. If the Reavers end up playing us in the finals like last year, you might both be killed.”
Spinne looked at Dirk, who scoffed with a bitter laugh. “This is really pathetic,” he said to Dunk. “Did Pegleg put you up to this? Or Slick?”
The halfling gave a too-innocent shrug. The drinks arrived just then, and he snatched up his fresh stein and hid his face in it. The others left their orders untouched.
“You can’t expect us to quit our team because of some ancient legend,” Spinne said. “We’re Blood Bowl players. If we left the game every time there was some kind of threat, we’d never be able to take the field. Just being out there on the gridiron is one of the most dangerous things you can do.”
“But this isn’t a legend,” Dunk said. “It’s real. I’ve seen it in action, both in Albion and during the game today. If you play against us, you’ll be killed, and I don’t want to see that happen.”
“So why don’t you quit?” Dirk said. “Or steal the cup? Or destroy it? Or sabotage the Hackers? Why should we have to forfeit our shot at the championship?”
Dunk frowned. He could feel the conversation slipping away from him. “Don’t you think I’ve thought of that? Pegleg has hidden t
he cup away, and he’s got our team wizard, Olsen Merlin, guarding it for him. I’ve tried talking to them both, but it’s no use. They want the championship, and they don’t much care how many people have to die for them to get it.”
“You could say the same thing about any Blood Bowl coach,” Spinne said, unimpressed. “Dunk, I wanted this to be a happy moment for us. Why do you have to ruin it like this?”
Dunk saw the disturbed look on her beautiful face, and he knew she wanted him to stop, to ignore the threat to her life and let her handle it herself, just like she always did. She was a Blood Bowl player. She lived with mortal danger every day, and they never talked about it. They preferred to ignore the threat of death that always hung over their heads, sticking to the moment instead, enjoying it for what it was, not what it might represent. To her, this threat of the Far Albion Cup was no different than any other — and a poor excuse for shattering the good mood.
But Dunk couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t sit here, finally reunited with her after so many months, and forget about the fact that the Far Albion Cup might make his team murder hers on the field. There was no way around it.
“You have to quit,” he said. “Both of you. Or, if you care about your team-mates, you have to lose a game. Not right away, of course, but before the Hackers meet you in the playoffs.”
“What makes you think you scruffy bastards will make it to the playoffs again?” Dirk said.
Dunk snarled at him. “Pay attention, would you? This isn’t some joke. This is your life I’m talking about, and yours,” he said to Spinne.
She got to her feet. “I’ve had enough of this,” she said. “I thought you’d be glad to see me, to know that I’d decided to give you a second chance, but this…” Dunk thought he saw tears welling up in her eyes. “I trusted you. I loved you, but this…”
He saw her reach down inside herself and clamp down on whatever it was that produced emotions in her. In an instant, she turned cold and distant. The woman he loved — correction, the woman who loved him — was gone.
[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball Page 23