by Graeme Lyon
‘Well, you can, Bob, you have that ability, but in this case I agree completely. Ten minutes in, and neither team has done anything daring. There’s some talent out there on the field – Grafstein of the Titans is definitely one to watch – but they’re not taking chances. Unless something exceptional happens, this is going to be a very dull match indeed.’
Bob nodded. ‘That’s right, Jim. And I think we both know what the chances of something exceptional happening are.’
Borgut watched Mazlocke work. The wizard stood at the centre of a circle painted on the floor of the cramped cupboard they’d cleared of cleaning products to perform the ritual. He was using a foul-smelling substance that Borgut decided he’d rather not know the provenance of. The wizard was chanting in a voice that sounded suspiciously high-pitched.
‘I dunno what language he’s speaking, but it def’nitely sounds arcane, dunnit?’ whispered Gazbag, peering past Borgut to look into the cupboard. The two orcs stood out in the corridor, since there was only enough space for one inside.
‘Yeah,’ said Borgut doubtfully. He watched Mazlocke waving his arms in strange patterns, his utterances and movements growing faster and more urgent. The space inside the circle started to glow, as did the wizard’s eyes. The intricate patterns he was tracing in the air were now visible. Borgut took a step backwards and pulled Gazbag in front of him, just in case. It never paid to entirely trust wizards.
The ritual came to its climax, Mazlocke now shouting arcane gibberish as a web of light shone around him. Then there was a strange pop, the world turned inside out for a moment and Borgut closed his eyes as the light became too bright to stand. When he opened them again, the circle was empty. Mazlocke was gone.
‘Where’d he go?’ squeaked Gazbag.
‘I dunno, but he’ll be back for…’ Borgut trailed off as a horrible suspicion set in. ‘The money.’ He launched into a run, sprinting to the Boyz’ stinking locker room. He pulled open the locker he’d stashed the much larger bag of gold in. It was empty.
Now that the game was getting exciting, the atmosphere in the crowd was nothing short of electric. Gerhardt had been frankly embarrassed by the poor showing from the Titans early on. They were capable of so much better. The early injury to Gellert Holstein had been a setback, and had given the Black Water Boyz a bit of hope and energy, which had raised the tempo of the match.
Gerhardt was on his feet, shouting himself hoarse as he watched the action on the pitch below. One of the orc throwers lobbed the ball in a perfect pass towards the diminutive goblin, who sped towards the end zone. All that stood between the Boyz and a touchdown was Johann Walsh. As Gerhardt watched, the ball seemed to slow down and stop, then the world spun around him, and he fell, but he was horizontal, and he felt his elbow impact on flesh and bone…
Johann leaped into the air, twisting to avoid a punch thrown by one of the burlier orcs, and reached for the ball as it flew past his face. Just as his fingertips touched it, he felt something hit him. The ball sped past out of reach and he was thrown forwards. He landed on the soft grass and rolled over, groaning in agony, oblivious to the unexpectedly high pitch of his voice…
Goblin ran, heedless of whoever might be around him. The end zone was ahead, but his eyes were fixed on the ball arcing through the air. A few yards more and he’d be in position to catch it and score. If he did, he might get fed tonight. He ran, arms and legs pumping, and then his vision blurred and he wasn’t moving anymore. He couldn’t see the ball and the ground suddenly seemed quite a lot more distant than it had been. Was he flying?
Kurt was showboating. The ball was on the other side of the field, so no one was paying him the attention he was due, and that was unacceptable. He kicked the leg out from beneath an orc thrower, then threw himself down on the greenskin elbow-first in an ostentatious display of skill and martial prowess. The blow didn’t make contact. There was a bright light, and then the roaring of the crowd was much louder, and he fell back onto a hard wooden bench, crowds pressing in tight around him. He looked down, and uttered an unbelieving curse…
Juliana stood atop a pyramid of cheerleaders, held aloft by hands gripping her ankles. She cheered, waving her pom-poms towards the stands, and watched as Johann leapt and missed the ball. Then her head swam and she felt a force pushing her. She lost her balance and fell, the grips on her legs loosening, and then she was on the ground. She looked up and saw, much to her surprise, a rather large and heavily armoured orc about to land on her…
Ghurg was happily watching people running around. He enjoyed this. All he had to do was stand in the middle of the field, and when someone green came near, hit them until they fell down or ran away screaming. He was good at that, the hitting. A movement nearby caught his attention. A big orc (not as big as Ghurg, but bigger than most of the others) with very dark skin and spikes on his armour was running towards him, clearly wanting a fight. Ghurg raised one massive meaty fist to meet the oncomer. Then everything shook, and Ghurg was looking at the sky and running. He tripped and fell head over heels, and blinked up to see a ball hurtling down towards his face…
‘And Raggut throws a beautiful pass towards the end zone, but it looks like Walsh is in position to intercept…’ Jim Johnson’s voice was high and fast as he related the events on the field to the watching audience.
‘If he can avoid the fists of the blitzer Mugwort there, Jim,’ interjected Bob.
‘And it looks like he has, Bob, and he’s reaching for the ball – oh, he’s missed it!’
‘Yeah, he has, and that could be bad for the Titans, Jim. On the other hand, it looks like Grafstein is bringing the hurt to poor Mugwort in retaliation,’ said the ogre. ‘This is turning out to be a pretty decent game, eh?’
‘It is indeed, Bob, and–’ Jim’s voice choked off as several things happened at once. Down on the field, there was a flash of light, and several of the players seemed to convulse. As the flash reached the commentator’s box, Jim felt his head swim. He shook it, and continued.
‘Sorry about that, I felt dizzy for a…’ He trailed off, paused for a moment and spoke again. ‘Something seemed to hit the…’ Again, he let his sentence end prematurely, as he wondered what was going on. He gave voice to his concern. ‘Bob… Why do I suddenly sound like you?’
He looked to his right, but the ogre wasn’t there. He looked left and saw, much to his surprise, himself, staring up at him in disbelief.
‘I don’t know, Jim,’ his doppelganger said. ‘But I have to say, you look a lot like me as well.’
Jim looked down, and there was a lot more ‘down’ than usual. Below him stretched the very large, quite fat, and undeniably ogreish body of Bob Bifford.
‘Bob,’ he said in the ogre’s deep and grating voice, ‘I think something exceptional has happened.’
Juliana rolled left moments before the orc’s massive body landed. It missed her by inches, and the impact threw up mud that splattered her. She scrambled to her feet, but her body felt sluggish, as if it were somehow bigger and more densely muscled than before.
She thrust her confusion to one side and leapt backwards as the orc, back on his feet, threw a punch at her. She ducked beneath another blow strong enough to take off her head and put all her strength into a diving tackle. She hit the orc in the midriff with all her strength, and… it did nothing. She fell back, and the greenskin laughed and stamped a massive hob-nailed boot down towards her chest.
Juliana – or whoever she was right now – rolled, taking the blow to her left arm and feeling something break, then pushed herself to her feet, gasping at the pain. She evaded another of the orc’s wild swings, then half-cheered as another Titans player, the lineman Phineas Crabbe, barrelled into the greenskin from behind.
‘Ball’s open, Johann,’ Crabbe yelled as he and the orc went down in a tangle of limbs. ‘Get it!’
Juliana looked around, trying to orient herself, before Crab
be’s words really sunk in. He had called her Johann. She looked down and saw not her skimpy cheerleaders costume, but the white cloth and red lacquered armour of the Titans… on a man’s body. Johann’s body.
Looking over towards the field’s edge, where she had been atop the human pyramid, she could see the Titans cheerleaders clustering around a fallen figure. She watched in silent horror as the girls helped the figure to its feet. No, to her feet. Literally hers. The standing figure was Juliana. It was her.
‘Juliana, what happened? Are you alright?’
Johann’s head swam and he blinked as vision returned, looking up into the face of Mariella, one of the Titans cheerleaders.
‘What… what are you doing on the field?’ he asked, voice slurring and, he realised, high. Not his own. ‘What… what’s going on? Why do I sound like–’
‘Juliana, I asked if you’re alright,’ said Mariella, impatience tinging her tone. ‘Come on, you’ve taken harder falls than that.’
‘Why d’you keep calling me Juliana,’ Johann asked blearily. ‘I’m–’
‘You’re going to be in trouble with Mr. Vanderwald if you don’t get up and start cheering again. You know he hates it when the crowd gets restless.’
Hands grabbed at Johann and pulled him to his feet into a mass of scantily-clad cheerleaders. In his bleary state, it half occurred to him that he was in the midst of some sort of fantasy, but that thought was quickly dispelled as pom-poms were thrust into his hands and he was pushed towards the stands, where fans were leaning forward, leering and clamouring. Behind him, the cheerleaders started to chant.
‘Why do you want me to cheer?’ he asked, and finally the haze lifted and he realised that his voice wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. He was a cheerleader. He was a woman. He was Juliana.
Goblin flinched as Krusha, the biggest and meanest black orc he’d ever been on a team with, barrelled towards him.
‘What’ve I done, Krusha?’ he squeaked in alarm, but his voice was much, much deeper than it should have been. Plus, Krusha looked… small. He was still massive, with arms and legs as thick as tree trunks and a fist raised that could have crushed Goblin into green paste with a single squeeze, but he looked strangely puny. Goblin lifted one arm in a vain attempt to try and fend off this confusing and unprovoked attack – he was sure he hadn’t done anything wrong except miss the ball, and that wasn’t unusual. His arm made contact with the black orc and lifted him from his feet, throwing him into the air and knocking him back. Goblin was stunned.
‘Did I do that?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, Krusha. I dint mean to.’
The orc didn’t respond. Goblin knelt down next to him, the movement slow and cumbersome, and prodded the orc in the face. His finger was huge. And it wasn’t green. Goblin knew he wasn’t the smartest creature in the world – though he could rightly claim to be a genius next to some of the orcs on the Black Water Boyz – but even he realised now that something about himself was different. He was big. He wasn’t green anymore. He was…
‘An ogre!’ he shouted. ‘I’s become an ogre!’
Visions filled his mind of the things he could accomplish. A creature as powerful as an ogre with the cunning mind of a goblin – he could be famous. He could be rich and powerful, he could make his mark on the world. But, he realised, that could wait. There was one thing he wanted more than anything else. The one thing any goblin really, truly wanted and would always take given the opportunity. Revenge on the orcs who tormented him. He stood up, grinned, and stamped down on Krusha’s stupid, drooling face, over and over again.
‘Take that, Krusha. Take that, all orcs!’ He raised his voice and shouted to the sky. ‘I is Goblin, and I’s gonna get you all!’
The ball landed just next to Ghurg. He ignored it, trying to work out why he was lying down on the grass. He remembered an orc running towards him and raising a fist. He couldn’t have been knocked down. Ghurg was never knocked down. He was the one who knocked. He looked around, but didn’t see the orc. And he wasn’t where he had been standing, on the touchline. He was way down the pitch, close to an end zone. He’d never been this close to one before. He wasn’t allowed to play with the ball, just to stand and hit anyone who came close.
He pulled himself to his feet, and was confused again. The ground seemed much closer than usual. And his arms and legs were skinny and green. His armour was gone too. This was very strange. Ghurg looked around to see if anyone else from the Titans had turned green and tiny. It didn’t look like it, but he could see Johann. Johann was nice, was his friend. He didn’t call him ugly or stupid like some of the other players did. He liked Johann. He decided to get up and go and ask Johann what to do.
As an afterthought, Ghurg turned to pick up the ball. It seemed big, but he scooped it up, carrying it in front of him in his two small, green hands, and started trotting towards Johann.
‘What in Nuffle’s name is going on?’ shouted Kurt, as he looked down at the field in disbelief. ‘Why am I sitting here among you stinking savages when I should be down there being magnificent?’
‘Haha, nice one, Gerhardt,’ drawled a voice to his right. He turned to see a spotty and unkempt boy in an oversized Titans replica uniform.
‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘And who’s Gerhardt?’
‘Duh, you are,’ said the boy. ‘Did you hit your head or something? And you know who I am. Stop being an idiot and watch the game. Your boyfriend just broke an orc’s face.’
‘My boyf… What are you talking about? I’m not Gerhardt, I’m Kurt Grafstein, and I… Wait, how did I get here?’
‘You’re Kurt Grafstein?’ The boy looked incredulous. ‘What are you talking about? You’re Gerhardt Plumstader, and you’ve been sitting there for an hour, you moron.’
‘Gerhardt Plumstader? Why is that name familiar?’ Kurt wracked his brains. He knew the name, but from where? ‘Plumstader… There are Plumstaders in Helheim, where I grew up.’
‘Yeah, they’re your parents. Seriously Gerhardt, what’s going on? This isn’t funny. I know you’re obsessed with Kurt, but stop this pretending. It’s creepy.’
Obsessed. Gerhardt Plumstader. It all clicked into place for Kurt. The letters, from a boy from Helheim. He hadn’t read them – he didn’t have time to read fan mail – but he’d been told about them by team security, who thought this Gerhardt Plumstader seemed a tad obsessed. ‘Probably not dangerous, but if he contacts you in any other way, please let us know,’ the guard had said.
Cold fury overtook Kurt. He turned and grabbed the boy’s chin, pulling his face level to Kurt’s own.
‘What did that little weirdo do to me?’ he growled.
Gerhardt yelped as he felt bone crunch beneath his elbow and heard a grunt of pain.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I was in the stands, and I was cheering, and–’
He was rudely interrupted by a very large and very powerful green fist smacking him very hard in the face. He was thrown back, feeling a sharp flare of pain and a surge of adrenalin.
‘Ow, why did you do that?’
‘You ’it me,’ grunted the orc who was now towering over Gerhardt, cracking his knuckles menacingly. ‘You might be some fancy-pants ’umie blitzer, but that don’t mean you can ’it me.’
‘Blitzer? I, no, there’s been some mistake here. I’m just a fan, an ordinary person, I don’t even know why you’d think I–’
Gerhardt stopped abruptly as the adrenaline wore off and his brain kicked back in. He looked up properly at the orc, as if seeing him for the first time, then down at himself, at the mud- and blood-flecked uniform he wore, in the white and red of the Titans.
‘I’m on the pitch,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘I’m a player. I’m a Titan!’
The orc laughed and threw himself at Gerhardt, who reacted with a punch to the orc’s stomach. The orc’s heavily armoured stomach. Ger
hardt screamed as his fingers broke, then the orc barrelled into him and he screamed some more.
He kicked out, pushing the orc back, then threw himself to his feet and ran.
Borgut ran out of the locker room, Gazbag at his heels. He sprinted up out of the dugout to the field and stopped in disbelief as he saw the state of the pitch. The promised hordes of skilled players weren’t anywhere to be seen. And neither were the Black Water Boyz, at least not in any effective, organised way. They were getting hammered.
‘That cheating little scumbag!’ he roared.
Gazbag peered around, squinting at the orcs who littered the field, most of them on their backs moaning where the Titans’ ogre had left them as it rampaged across the pitch. ‘Boss, where’s the special players?’ he asked eventually.
‘There are none,’ hissed Borgut from between gritted fangs. ‘I don’t know if that little weasel Mazlocke conned us, or if he was just rubbish, but nothing’s happened.’
‘Maybe it’s just gonna take some time, boss. Maybe the spell caught the players sleeping or something, and they’re getting their kit on.’
Borgut goggled at his assistant. ‘Sleeping? Sleeping? The only players sleeping seem to be the Boyz! Look at them – I’ve seen fewer casualties on a battlefield!’
Gazbag shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly. ‘What’s gonna happen to the Boyz then?’ he asked.
Borgut glared up at him. ‘What do you think? We were already about done, and this disaster is it. The end. It’s over. All our gold is gone, the team are getting hammered out there, and when the Colleges of Magic find out what I did, I’ll be deader than our chances of winning this game.’ Misery overtook him and he slumped to the ground. ‘This is the end of the Black Water Boyz.’
‘In that case, I’m gonna leave now and get the first caravan back to the mountains,’ said Gazbag cheerfully. ‘I hear the Gunbad Giants are looking for a new coach. I fink the spiders ate the old one. See ya, boss.’ He turned and wandered towards the stadium’s exit.
