He could stand it no longer. He snatched the covers back again and reached down to start tearing away the stiff bandages. They tore loudly in his fevered grip, cast across the room as he dug towards the source of the itch. Finally, his nails scraped something that wasn’t just cloth and plaster of Parravon. Pain pulsed dully from beneath his fingertips. Only, he wasn’t probing flesh. He frowned, wondering what sort of plaster Frisk had used for the lower cast.
More of the bandages fell away, and he saw something that made the itch vanish into insignificance. It wasn’t plaster he could feel after all.
Before him was a thigh completely covered in thick, dark blue scales. They glistened in the flickering candlelight, hard to the touch. Slowly, mouth agape, he dragged away the bandages around his waist, exposing where Frisk had sewed and sutured the unnatural flesh to his own upper leg. The sight set his stomach churning. It only got worse when he moved the leg slightly, and the strange, leathery skin beneath the scales responded.
He’d seen this leg before. He knew exactly where it had come from. The coldbloods. One of the saurus blockers. Frisk had replaced his lower limb with a lizardman leg!
Maybe he’d have screamed, were it not for the scratching. The sound was back, digging away at the timber somewhere in the room. As he focused on it the heavy Guterdorf grandfather clock – the only one in the house not yet sold off or gambled away – counted sonorously past the witching hour. He started. The hideous limb twitched. Garr croaked a curse as the scraping sound continued. One of the worst things about going bankrupt was running out of money to pay the rat catcher. The old townhouse seemed permanently infested.
‘Nog,’ he said, his voice a dry croak. As he tried to marshal some spit he suddenly became aware of a presence beside his bed.
‘Hippogriff’s balls,’ he grunted, twisting towards the figure. It stumbled back – curiously unstable – a tall, hunched man, wrapped up in an off-white cloak with a raised cowl. In one bandage-bound hand he gripped a crooked staff.
‘I’ve got no time for apparitions,’ Garr snapped, mastering his shock. ‘And if you… by Nuffle’s rusty knuckleduster, you stink! Where did you come from, the waste shaft? Is that how you got in?’
‘Mister Greyg,’ said the spectre in a curiously high-pitched voice. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mister Squimper.’
‘I’ll allow you to get out of my damned house, you falsetto geriatric,’ Garr said. ‘Or I’ll have my ogre snap your crooked back into shape.’
‘I’ll be gone soon enough, Mister Greyg, y-yes,’ Squimper said, swaying unsteadily. ‘But first, I h-have a proposition for you to consider.’
‘What’s wrong with your voice?’
The stranger paused for a moment, as if thinking. ‘I… I’m Bretonnian,’ he said.
‘Now it makes sense. Is that brown stuff on your cloak what I think it is?’
‘Your leg is badly damaged, Mister Greyg.’
‘My leg is gone,’ Garr snapped. ‘I don’t even know if this monstrosity is a leg.’ He prodded the blue scales again.
‘It will serve you well, if you have time to heal. But you do not. You will not play in the final, Mister Greyg. And without you, the Nordland Rangers will l-lose their last hope of promotion back to the Majors.’
‘Listen, you stuttering snail-eater–’
The tall figure bent unsteadily over Garr’s bed and placed one bandaged hand on his new leg, the long, bony fingers gripping him. An ugly green glow suffused the room, seemingly emanating from Squimper’s crooked staff. The sewer-stink redoubled.
Garr cried out at the sudden grip on his scaled flesh, expecting a fresh flood of pain. Instead, all he felt was numbness. Cool, soothing oblivion. The green light faded, though the stench remained. In the distance what sounded like a town bell tolled, though it was long past the hour.
‘What did you do?’ Garr demanded, trying to wriggle away from the figure. It let go, yet the sweet numbness remained.
‘I can heal this, and more,’ Squimper said.
‘You’re some sort of stinking Bretonnian spell-weaver then? Well, magician or not, you still smell like sh–’
‘These effects are not permanent,’ Squimper interjected with his high squeak. ‘They are dependent entirely on my goodwill.’ The apparition clicked its fingers, and the pain in his lizard leg returned, worse than before. Garr moaned and slumped back against his pillows.
‘I can make sure you compete in your playoff final, Mister Greyg,’ said Squimper. ‘And I have a further incentive, one that those you owe would surely thank me for, if ever they knew how you came by enough reikmarks to pay off your substantial debts.’ A heavy bag materialised in the thing’s hand. It clinked when he set it down on the bed next to Garr.
‘This is half. You get the rest after the match.’
‘What do you want from me, trickssster?’ Garr hissed, clutching his scaled limb. ‘What’s the catch?’
‘What indeed, Mister Greyg,’ said Squimper, leaning in closer, his stench overwhelming. ‘I will make you s-stronger, faster, fitter, and wipe your debts. But you must d-do something for me too.’
The stadium hadn’t been filled since the Nordlanders’ relegation, three seasons earlier. Now it was packed to its old timber rafters, filled up with every conceivable creature. Halflings and elves, greenskins, humans and twitching, shade-wearing vampires, drawn like buzzwings to Bloodweiser by the alluring promise of violence both on and off the pitch. The Thunderdome was thundering, and the Thunderbolt was ready to strike.
Garr approached the centre point of the scrimmage line. He was vaguely aware of a vicious catfight breaking out on the sidelines between the Nordlander cheerleading team and the ridiculous, silk-ribbon-draped gobbos the East End Boyz counted as their own cheerleader squad. Garr ignored the shrill ruckus, eyes deliberately fixed not on the crowd, but on the towering greenskin coming to meet him.
He didn’t remember Mister Squimper leaving after his nocturnal appearance, but he’d woken the next morning feeling more in shape than he had since the relegation, three years earlier. He’d spotted the strange white-clad figure again in the crowds during warm-up, deliberately seated near the dugout barricades. The sorcerer’s gaze was making the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle.
The vampiric attention of Grizmund was just as discomfiting. Nog had taken delivery of a letter from the bloodsucker that morning informing him, in no uncertain terms, that unless his debts were paid within the next day there would be a knock on his door. Winning the promotion prize pot would go a good way to paying off the debts, but he’d still fall a little short. And Mister Squimper knew it.
Off-pitch worries took a back seat as a shadow fell across him. He’d reached the halfway line, and so had Krapnugg. The huge, one-eyed captain of the East End Boyz leered down at the human blitzer, green-and-white scrap armour glinting, stinking of stale sweat, raw hides and fungus beer. Garr felt an upsurge of revulsion as he squared up to his team’s most bitter rival. The elf refereeing the match kept his distance, clearly disgusted by both the human and the orc.
‘Thundaboy, ya git,’ Krapnugg growled. ‘I heard you woz done for.’
‘And I heard the Rangers are today’s odds-on favourites with the betting scribess,’ Garr croaked back.
‘Dat’s good you’s fit for da game den. I gets to be da one who krumps ya good.’
‘The only things getting krumped today are your team’s promotion hopes, funguss-ball.’
Krapnugg hawked and spat a wad of green phlegm at Garr’s boots. ‘We do da talking on da pitch, Thundaboy. I’ll see you in da scrum.’
‘Gentlemen,’ the elf said, investing the word with every ounce of scorn he could muster. ‘Orcs or eagles?’
‘Orcs,’ Krapnugg bellowed, beating one great, green fist against his scarred breastplate. Garr nodded, not flinching away from the hate-filled gaze of the riva
l captain.
With a delicate flick, the elf sent a reikmark skyward. Garr glanced into the braying crowd, at where Mister Squimper was seated. He saw the cloaked figure make a brief chopping motion, unnoticed by the manic spectators surrounding him. The coin landed on the elf’s outstretched palm and he slapped it down on his slender forearm.
‘Orcs,’ he announced. ‘The greenskins have it.’
Krapnugg bared his tusks in what approximated a vicious grin. ‘See you in ’ell, thunda-cripple,’ he grunted. Garr said nothing. Unnoticed by the roaring crowds, a shiver ran up his spine.
It was game on.
Kickoff. There was nothing in the world Garr loved more. The roaring of the crowd had reached a frenzied crescendo, the noise setting the great stands of the rickety stadium quivering. Humans, ratmen, elves, greenskins and more, it was a sell-out. The only creatures who seemed absent in any numbers were the dwarfs – likely fans of Longbeard MineCorps were still licking their wounds after defeat to the East End Boyz in the previous playoff.
Out on the pitch both sides had taken up their starting positions. The Boyz had opted for their usual aggressive set-up, the leading edge of their offensive box formation commanded by the grey-scaled river troll that also passed as their hideous, leering mascot. The stink of rotting fish was reaching Garr, even from the far side of the pitch. It only made his stomach-churning discomfort worse.
This was not how he had seen the final playing out. He could take no pleasure from the hype of the crowd or the burning expectation of the rest of the team. Normally such things would have carried him to heady, adrenaline-fogged heights moments before the first blow of the whistle, but not today. Today was different. Today was a nightmare.
At least his body was ready for it. He put pressure on his scaled limb once more, feeling it take the weight easily. Rife had modified his strip so the freakish replacement was hidden, though the sensation of his scales grating against his clothes sent a shiver down his spine. He flexed, settled a shoulder-plate, gave his helmet a smack with a gauntlet. Instinctive revulsion aside, the leg was fine. He felt like he could blitz his way through every hoop-striped East End greenskin on the pitch, one after the other. Whatever Squimper was doing to him, it was working.
And that was just the problem.
It started to rain, fat, stinging droplets pinging from armour plates and turning the turf sodden. The sky had changed to a leaden grey. The crowd seemed to enjoy the worsening deluge, their demented shrieking reaching new heights. In fairness, it was probably the first wash most of them had enjoyed for months.
Distant thunder rumbled. Garr tried to decide if it was a good omen or not. The elf raised his hand, chiselled features riven with discomfort as the rain plastered his long, blond locks. He dropped his arm and blew the whistle.
Game on.
‘Keep closse,’ Garr hissed across to Gruber as he went forward. He didn’t want the younger blitzer running away with all the glory. At least his leg responded perfectly. He felt young, he felt strong, but, for the first time in his life, seeing a green wall pounding towards him through the lashing rain, his heart quailed. It was a lie, and he knew it.
The East End Boyz were playing the Rangers at their own game – driving straight down the middle. Their troll was on a collision course with Dumpf, Krapnugg himself sprinting in the lumbering creature’s path after having scooped the ball up under one trunk-like arm. The team’s gobbo runners were attempting to slip either side down the wide zones. There was a reason the East End Boyz had vanquished their other great rivals, the dwarfs of the Longbeard MineCorps, to reach the playoffs – for a greenskin team, they were disciplined, and they knew their game plan.
Garr found his stride, and a surge of determination filled him. Disciplined or not, they were still going down. There was no way the Rangers were going to lose their promotion bid this season. Win this game and they were going back up to the Majors. The team deserved it, and he needed it.
He hit the first orc full tilt. The greenskin was big, but Garr had learned how to take them out a long time ago. His right shoulder hit it in the stomach, his momentum deliberately driving him beneath its centre of gravity. It absorbed his charge with a grunt, its stinking, slab-like bulk forced back a step. Garr converted his forward drive into an upward thrust, pushing hard into the greenskin’s chest as it attempted to wrap its trunk-like arms around him. The move sent it toppling, flailing for purchase as it slammed into the dirt. It tried to snatch at Garr’s ankle, but he was still going forward, the front line defence pierced.
There was an audible crash as the rest of the two teams collided. Dumpf and the river troll hit with a crack that made the crowd gasp.
Garr looked left as he sprinted. Gruber had gone, taken down by a greenskin blocker.
‘Vulf!’ he bellowed, gesticulating at the end zone. Despite Gruber’s holdup, the catcher had made it through and was making his run towards the Boyz backline.
‘On it, boss!’ Vulf shouted as he cut right across the pitch, into Garr’s throwing arc. The blitzer wound up but, even as he prepared to throw, his eyes locked on the crowd, and the figure of Squimper. The sorcerer had risen, and had one crooked hand outstretched, a finger pointing directly at him from across the stands. Garr felt his blood run cold. A second later his right thigh twitched. He stumbled, sudden panic filling his thoughts. Squimper lowered his arm, and the pain went away.
‘Garr!’
The shout, from Torvern, came too late. The split-second distraction had given a black orc blocker enough time to close with Garr. It hit him from the right, all snorting violence, scarred muscles and glaring, piggy red eyes. Garr knew better than to try and resist the brute’s momentum – he let it take him down, hit the sodden turf, rolled with the impact. He was back on his feet again in a few seconds, fast and strong, body infused with an unnatural vitality.
He could do this. He knew exactly what he had to do – make sure the Nordland Rangers lost their playoff final to the East End Boyz.
Mister Squimper was the fixer, the mysterious charlatan who’d seemingly got to almost every single coach or star player in the Championship. He’d told Garr as much, as the blitzer lay with one hand on his new, unnatural, pain-infused limb. The exact nature of the scam wasn’t clear, but the falsetto wizard had made one thing plain enough – if Garr botched his game plan and gave the East End Boyz the win, Squimper would provide just enough reikmarks to pay off his debts. If he played to the best of his abilities, the papers would discover the freakish surgery Frisk had performed. Even if the Nordlanders won, such a scandal would see their prize money taken and Garr’s career ruined. And then Grizmund and his thralls would come for him in the dead of the night.
Such a reality left Garr feeling cold. But betraying the Nordlanders was easier said than done. Just seeing Krapnugg and his crew of green beasts on the pitch filled Garr with determination. It had overcome him earlier. Squimper was making clear what would happen if his instincts won out again. When the black orc took him down, he stayed down.
The greenskins won the first touchdown, punching their way to the end zone in season-record-breaking time. They won the second too, and the third. Garr found himself sprawled in the churning muck twice, once from the fist of a lumbering orc lineman, another time dragged down by a trio of bickering goblins. The move was a blatant foul, but the elf was far too busy lamenting his wet hair to care. Garr beat the goblins off with a snarl of pure frustration, but by the time he’d extricated himself the half-time whistle had sounded.
It wasn’t going at all to plan for the Rangers, which meant it was going perfectly to plan for Garr. Or more accurately, for Mister Squimper.
If anything, it was a surprise the fixing had taken so long to reach the Nordlanders. The bag stuffed with reikmarks left lying on Garr’s bed had amounted to exactly half the debts he owed Grizmund. The other half would see him in the clear. The damp stones and rus
ting grates of the debtors’ prison seemed like a distant nightmare. The threat of tabloid scandals and emergency conferences seemed forgotten. Maybe his star playing career wouldn’t crash and burn after all. Maybe, unlike so many before, he’d found a way to escape what had started to feel like inevitability. He just had to cheat. Worse, he just had to lose.
‘What in the name of Nuffle’s throwing arm is going on out there?’ demanded Rife during half-time. ‘Any explanations?’
Nobody answered. Everyone was drenched, bruised, and at least half the team were openly glaring at Garr. He kept his own gaze fixed on Rife, who in turn refused to meet his eye. It was obvious – the coach didn’t have the guts to call out his star player on all the blatant mistakes he was making. The coach’s plethora of feathers were drooping and sodden, and there was a look of panic in his eyes as he sought to blame anything and everything other than his pampered blitzer. The realisation made Garr feel even more sick.
‘We’re changing formation,’ Rife said. ‘Trying to match these green bastards head-on isn’t working. Dumpf, you’re going down the right-wing wide zone. Vulf, Muller, make use of any space he creates. On defence we need to watch the goblins more and that big damn fish-troll less. Also, Gustav and Wold, you’re off. I’m bringing on Ulmann and Friedberger. Get our defence firmed up and we can work our way back into this.’
‘What about Garr, coach?’ Vulf ask, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice. For the first time, Rife looked at Garr.
‘Use your experience,’ he said. ‘And play roamer.’
In other words, just get out of the damned way.
The game changed. For all their ability at playing to a set plan, Krapnugg and his boys proved themselves woefully inflexible when it came to changing tactics. Dumpf punched through the wing defences time and time again, while the addition of two fresh, determined blockers, Ulmann and Friedberger, helped shore up the defence. After the three-quarter mark the Nordland Rangers had almost managed to drag themselves level. Even the rain had let up, giving way to weak, watery sunlight.
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