[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball

by Matt Forbeck - (ebook by Undead)

  “Just you bloody well try it!” Edgar said. It swatted the vampire orc back with a swing of a long, solid branch. The effort laid open Skragger’s cheek.

  Skragger reached up and felt the hole in his face, then gazed up at the treeman, his eyes wide with terror.

  “Tackle him!” Dunk shouted.

  “I’m not really built for such things, mate,” Edgar said, “not being able to bend at the — Whoa!”

  Knowing he only had split seconds to act, Dunk barrelled into Edgar from behind. Already overbalanced from leaning forward to smack Skragger, the treeman toppled on top of the vampire orc and pinned him to the ground.

  The scream Skragger let loose would have been enough to curdle Dunk’s blood, but the roar of the crowd drowned it out. The thrower knew he didn’t have much time to act. In moments, the orc might figure out he could turn to mist if he wanted to. Maybe he couldn’t when he was pinned under a fallen tree. Maybe he could. But Dunk didn’t want to find out the hard way.

  Dunk leaped over Edgar and found himself face to face with Skragger. Blood surged from the orc’s pale lips as he tried to find enough air in his lungs to curse each and every one of the Hackers to their last dying days.

  Dunk reached down and grabbed the vampire by his helmet. He tried to pull it off, but the damned thing was strapped on tight enough to be like an extension of Skragger’s skull.

  Skragger finally cleared his throat enough to spit a mouthful of someone else’s blood into Dunk’s face. The thrower nearly gagged, but instead he gritted his teeth, grabbed Skragger’s helmet by the faceguard and started to twist.

  “Think you’re tough?” Skragger howled. “Think you can kill me? I’m already dead!”

  Dunk ignored the vampire orc’s ramblings and kept twisting the helmet as hard as he could to one side. Skragger fought him every inch of the way, but Dunk had the position and the leverage he needed. He put one last burst of strength into his effort, and the report of a loud crack from Skragger’s neck rewarded him.

  “Won’t stop me!” Skragger growled as Dunk continued to twist. “Can’t kill the dead!”

  Dunk knew Skragger was right, that what he did here would only be a temporary measure, but he didn’t care. As long as he stopped Skragger from killing him today — and collecting his fee from the Guterfiends — he didn’t mind a bit.

  Dunk twisted the head around until Skragger faced him again. The vampire orc spit blood at him again. Dunk gave the vampire orc’s head another twist, then another, and more, until the inevitable happened. With a final wrench of Skragger’s black helmet, Dunk felt the creature’s torn and shattered neck finally give. The helmeted head snapped free of Skragger’s body.

  Dunk bobbled the head and almost lost it. When he came up with it again, Skragger still stared back at him. “Think this stop me?” he said. “Nothing can stop me!”

  “Not from talking, at least,” Dunk said. He got to his feet and thrust Skragger’s head aloft.

  The crowd loved it.

  “Sensational!” Jim’s voice said. “So rarely do you get to see such a powerful rivalry end so badly for the vampire.”

  “It’s horrible!” Bob said, his voice heavy with emotion. “The orc had barely been blooded. To see eternity cut so savagely short… I… I…” He sobbed for a moment, and then shouted, “Just what is immortality for if you can’t enjoy it?”

  “Uh, right,” Jim said as Bob’s microphone went dead. “I think this one might have hit a little too close to home for our old friend here, folks.”

  Dunk didn’t care. The crowd kept roaring for him, sounding like a never-ending peal of thunder. When the noise finally started to ebb, Dunk heard a high-pitched noise piercing through it. He glanced around to find it and saw the referee standing next to a flag thrown on the Astrogranite, his face a bright red from blowing his whistle so hard.

  When the ref caught Dunk’s eye, he pointed a thin, green finger at the thrower, then threw his thumb back over his shoulder, toward the cheap seats in the stadium. Dunk was being tossed out of the game. This time, though, he didn’t mind. He tucked the still-cursing head of Skragger under his arm — the faceguard keeping the vampire orc from being able to bite him, no matter how hard he tried — and trotted over to the Hackers’ dugout, smiling the whole way.

  “So, son, how do you feel about your new team-mates now?” Slick asked.

  Dunk sighed, and then took a sip of his Killer Lite — after all of the blood in his face today, he wanted something smooth and easy — before he answered. After the Hackers’ victory, they’d run off to the Skinned Cat again, where Dunk had rented a private room in which he and Slick could watch that night’s game, a match-up between the Reavers and the Evil Gits. While there may not have been any crystal balls in the main room, the Skinned Cat’s management was savvy enough to keep a few on hand for their customers with the heaviest purses.

  “It’s hard for me to feel bad about anyone putting down the kind of monsters you find in the Champions of Death,” Dunk said. “Most of them will be up and running about again the next day anyway.”

  “Too true,” Slick said. “And, hey, the Hackers made it to the Blood Bowl finals for the second year in a row. Not too shabby!”

  “Only with the help of the Far Albion Cup. I can’t feel much pride in that.”

  Slick sighed. “It’s part of the game, son. Every team does everything it can to tip the scales in its favour. You think the Champions of Death would do any different? Or the Gits? Or the Reavers?”

  Dunk frowned. “I don’t object to the cup helping us win so much as how it does it. It turns us into a team of merciless killers. I feel it when I’m out there on the field too: a whispering in the back of my head urging me to kill any foe in my path.”

  “Is that so bad?”

  “It’s a game, not a battle. According to the teachings of Commissioner Roze-El, Nuffle sent us the rules for Blood Bowl to end the eternal series of wars that once wracked this world. Now, instead, of fighting those wars, we play Blood Bowl, and the people who would have been the foot soldiers in those battles cheer us on.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in any of that stuff.”

  Dunk raised his eyebrows and glanced down at the table. “I don’t. But whether I believe the godly bits about the story or not, it’s true, isn’t it? We don’t send thousands of troops to war against each other any more. We just watch Blood Bowl on Cabalvision. Maybe it satisfies some deep need for violent conflict we all have. Maybe it just distracts us so we can’t be bothered with other things like border skirmishes or invasions. Either way, it works out the same in the end.”

  He rubbed his chin a moment before he continued. “But the Far Albion Cup, it doesn’t want that. It digs into your head and screams for total annihilation. If it could, it would find a way to lead us all into war instead, leading an undefeatable army to conquer the entire world.”

  “Seriously?” Slick said, his eyes wide.

  Dunk took another sip of his beer.

  “Well then, son,” Slick said. “Maybe getting the Reavers to lose a game isn’t really enough, is it?”

  Dunk drank deeply this time. “No,” he said, “not really.”

  “What did you end up doing with Skragger’s head, anyway?” The halfling shuddered as he tried to change the subject. “I’d rather he never reported in for the Champions’ line-up again.”

  “I know what you mean,” Dunk said, grateful to talk about anything but the Far Albion Cup for the moment. “Even decapitated, the cruel bastard just wouldn’t shut up. He kept threatening me. ‘Just wait till I heal.’, ‘Put me down so I can bite you.’, ‘Scratch my nose’.”

  “So, did you?”

  Dunk grinned. “I gave him to Cavre.”

  “You thought he wanted a talking trophy to put on his mantel?”

  “I don’t know. He came to me and asked for it.” Dunk shrugged. “Why not?”

  “Why not, indeed!” the Gobbo said as he slid into the room.
<
br />   Slick scowled. “The sign on the door says, ‘Private’.”

  “Does it now?” the Gobbo grinned as he pulled up a chair next to the halfling and sat down. “I never did learn how to read or write. Nasty habits that waste your time and tend to leave evidence lying around all over the place.”

  “What do you want?” Dunk asked.

  “A woman who truly understands me.” The Gobbo’s grin told Dunk this was far down on his list of desires. “Or at least one who could suck the fire out of a dragon’s belly through its nose.” He cackled at his own joke.

  “Really, though, I came here so I could brief you on your mission.”

  “What mission?” Slick asked, standing up in his chair so he could stare the Gobbo straight in the eyes.

  “The game the kid’s going to throw after the Reavers lose this match.” The Gobbo laughed in Slick’s face. “I always collect my winnings.”

  The halfling started to protest, but Dunk cut him off. “He’s right. If he manages to pull it off, I’ll keep my end of the bargain.”

  The Gobbo grinned at Slick as he sat back in his chair. “It’s always a pleasure to do business with such a gentlemen. With some of the others, I have to resort to blackmail to get them to hold up their side of a deal. I can see I won’t have to do that with your client.”

  “Right,” Slick said sarcastically, giving Dunk a disappointed look the young thrower managed to ignore. “I’m so proud.”

  “So who’s your plant?” Dunk asked, keeping his eyes on the crystal ball. “I’d guess Breitzel from the way he’s been playing.”

  “And you’d be right, kid.” The Gobbo clapped Dunk on the back. “I’ve been grooming him for years. When the GWs cleaned house at the end of the last season, they only got about half of my guys. Breitzel hadn’t done much of anything for me up till then, and he slipped right through their fingers.”

  “How fortunate for you,” Slick said.

  “Hey,” the Gobbo said, “joke all you want, but that little scandal almost put me out of business. I considered going back into defence contracting for the Empire instead, but hey, I gotta have some sense of decency left.”

  Dunk stared at the bookie for a moment before he realised he wasn’t kidding. He decided to ignore the implications. “You really think Breitzel can sway the game? He’s not exactly the Reavers’ star player.”

  The Gobbo snorted. “It doesn’t take much to tip a game one way or the other, kid. All he has to do is fumble the ball at the right moment. Just like that!”

  Dunk looked at the crystal ball and saw Breitzel drop the ball deep in the Reavers’ own territory. An ogre with the nickname “Kill! Kill! Kill!” emblazoned across his back scooped it up and zoomed into the end zone. Breitzel made a feeble attempt to tackle the creature but got knocked flat on his rear for his trouble.

  “Don’t you guys have the sound up on this thing?” the Gobbo said. “I want to hear the play-by-play.” He reached out for the ball, but Dunk intercepted his warty hand and pushed it away.

  “I hear enough of Jim and Bob while I’m on the field,” he said. “I don’t need more of them while I’m off it.”

  The Gobbo gloated as the score flashed up on the ball. “It doesn’t matter. That’s the only stat that counts. Gits: 3, Reavers: 1.”

  “It’s only the first half,” Slick said. Dunk couldn’t believe it, but he found part of himself rooting for the Reavers too. Even though he knew it would destroy his plan to save Dirk and Spinne from death at the Hackers’ hands, he hated the thought that he would owe the Gobbo a favour — and he shuddered to think what he might have to do to pay it off.

  “Look, kid,” the Gobbo said to Dunk as the thrower stared into the crystal ball. “This is your last chance. If the Reavers win this one, they’ll face the Hackers in the finals. What will you do then?”

  Dunk groaned, and then buried his face in his hands. “It looks like I’m going to get the chance to find out.”

  “How’s that, kid?” the Gobbo said. “This game’s in the bag. And once it’s over and official, you and me will need to talk.”

  Dunk reached out and tapped the crystal ball’s base. Sound burst out of it then, carrying Jim and Bob’s voices over the crazed roar of the crowd.

  “Did you see that, Jim? Absolutely amazing!”

  “How could I miss it? I haven’t seen that much blood since — well, since we had lunch!”

  “If I was a Reaver, I think I’d be careful about how hard I played from now on — nothing but a hundred and ten percent! Otherwise, just look what could happen.”

  “Too true, Bob. We’ve heard reports from the Reavers’ camp that team captain Dirk Heldmann was struggling with some discipline problems, but it looks like those might be over.”

  “What happened?” the Gobbo said, elbowing Slick out of the way so he could get a better view of the crystal ball.

  “Let’s see that again, Jim! This is one for the highlights tonight!”

  As Dunk, Slick, and the Gobbo watched, the camra panned from Kill! Kill! Kill! celebrating his touchdown in the end zone to just a few feet away where Spinne stood beating the tar out of Breitzel. Then the traitorous Reaver stripped off his helmet and started using it as a weapon to bash Spinne over the head.

  Spinne went down trying to defend herself from the helmet with her arms, but Breitzel kept hammering at her. Then, just as the traitor was about to start kicking in Spinne’s ribs, Dirk came out of nowhere and smashed Breitzel into the Astrogranite. Then he crawled on top of the traitor’s back and used both hands to smash the man’s unprotected head into the ground until the fight left him for good.

  “I think,” Slick said, turning to the Gobbo, whose face looked greener than ever, “you just saw a flaw develop in your master plan.”

  26

  “Here’s to the Hackers!” Pegleg said, raising a glass to the team assembled around the long table he stood at the head of. “And here’s to the Blood Bowl championship!”

  Dunk joined the others in clinking their glasses together, but he remained silent as the others cheered. Looking around, he knew that some of his friends felt the way he did, but they all somehow managed to put up a better front. Normally, everyone enjoyed a Monday-evening feast after a victory. Even the players nursing injuries wore irremovable smiles. Tonight, though, the grins pasted on the faces of the new players were savage ones, and the old guard — which Dunk thought ironic to find himself in — wore their smiles as masks.

  “So, mate,” Simon said, clapping Dunk on the back, “how about those Reavers? What do you think about going up against your brother and your girlfriend again, just like last year?” The Albionman still wore the bandages that kept the disease he’d contracted from advancing any further. So far, they seemed to be doing all right, even though Simon’s eyes looked like he’d been drinking almost constantly since the game had ended the night before.

  “Not much,” Dunk said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “I don’t care to see strangers get killed, much less family and friends.”

  Simon grinned, and his breath stank of liquor and rot. “Well, that’s what it’s all about, though, in’nit? Beating down the other team? By any means necessary!” He staggered forward, and Dunk put out a hand to steady him. “In’nit that what happened to me? It’s all part of Nuffle’s damned game.”

  “Maybe,” Dunk said. He glared around the room at the new players, and then at Pegleg and Olsen, who sat chatting at the far corner of the table, enjoying their goblets of wine. Dunk noticed that Pegleg didn’t seem to want to be anywhere near him at the moment, and given the sourness of his mood he could understand why. “Maybe. But I don’t have to like it.”

  Simon put a wet-wrapped hand on Dunk’s shoulder. “You don’t have to like it, though, do you? You just have to get the job done. Make the money for the team. For our investors. Earn that pay cheque. And we’re paid well indeed, aren’t we?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Don’t you think that’d
take the sting off it? You know, dull the edge of the knife a bit as they keep digging it into you week after week? I used to think it would. I did.”

  The catcher sat back and hugged his arms across his chest. “But look at me now. A prettier picture you’ll never find, eh? All my money, and what good does it do me now. If I get killed out there…” Fat, hot tears rolled out of Simon’s eyes, but the wrappings on his face instantly soaked them up. He choked back the raw emotion in his voice. “Well, what good will all that gold do me then?”

  Dunk put a hand on Simon’s shoulder to steady him, to lend his friend some strength. Before he could say a word, though, a voice rang out in what Dunk realised was a silent room, but for Simon’s soft, muffled sobs.

  “Mr. Hoffnung,” Pegleg said. “I wonder if I might have a word with you before our first course arrives.”

  “Please,” Dunk said, gesturing for the coach to talk.

  “In private, if you don’t mind,” Pegleg said, an uneven smile on his face.

  “Can’t we speak openly in front of my team-mates?” Dunk asked. “Let’s be honest as we can about this. I have nothing to hide.”

  Pegleg shot a glance at the wizard sitting next to him. Olsen nodded at him grimly, and the ex-pirate grimaced at the thrower. “All right,” he said, but he hesitated to continue.

  “What is it?” Dunk asked.

  “Can I ask what it is you’ve said to turn Mr. Sherwood into a sobbing mess?”

  Dunk started to respond, but Simon put a gauze-swaddled hand on his arm. The Albionman gawked at the coach for a long, painful moment, then spoke. “He said nothing to me. Nothing. What would anyone have to say to a creature like myself to set me off, whimpering like a battered schoolgirl?” He sprang to his feet so fast Dunk feared he might burst through his wrappings. “Look at me!” he screeched. “Look at me!”

  Guillermo came up behind Simon then and grabbed him by the shoulders. The catcher spun into his friend’s arms and let him lead him out of the room, his sobs still wracking his frame, his feet squishing along the floor as he walked out.