“Blood Bowl is my career,” she said. “For the past five years, it’s been my passion and my life. I can’t imagine my life without it.”
Dunk’s heart fell into his stomach. He let his head hang low. Could he go on without her? If he was a target, then she was in danger too. Bounty hunters rarely cared who got hurt when they chased after their prey. He couldn’t stand the thought that she might get hurt because of him.
“All right,” he said. Before he could continue, she pulled up his chin and looked into his eyes.
“But when I try to imagine my life without you,” she said with a wan smile, “it’s even worse.”
Dunk leaned forward and kissed her soft and tender lips. He hoped their embrace would never have to end.
“Oh, for the love of the game,” Lehrer said. “How trite can you get? Could you two at least get a room?”
Dunk extricated himself from Spinne’s arms and raised his eyebrows at the old man, then glanced about at the ceiling, floor, and walls.
“Oh,” Lehrer said. “Right.”
Dunk put an arm around Spinne and felt her melt into his chest. With her at his side, at least, he knew everything would be okay, no matter if he stayed or left.
“It’s okay with me too, son,” Slick said.
Dunk peered over Spinne’s reddish hair at the halfling. In the light of the room’s single lantern, Slick looked a bit older than Dunk remembered ever seeing him. He and the halfling had started out at arm’s length, but they’d quickly come to trust each other, to depend on each other for the truth. They’d formed a deep and abiding friendship based on mutual respect and need for each other’s invaluable skills.
To leave Blood Bowl behind would mean leaving Slick behind too, and M’Grash and Guillermo, and Cavre and Edgar, and even Pegleg.
The only thing Dunk could think of to say to Slick was, “What?”
“If you must know, I’ve been thinking of retiring myself. After all, what better time to go out than at the top of your game, right? Why hang around until you’re a feeble old fool bumming ales from young fools in exchange for tired tales of the glories of your past?”
“What?” Dunk’s brain couldn’t digest the feast of foolishness Slick was trying to feed it.
“Don’t worry yourself about me, son,” Slick said, piling it on. “I’ll be just fine. I’ve had my eye on a tavern in Greenfield for a year or so now. I might even help out with the Grasshuggers a bit while I’m there, just to keep my hand in, you know.”
Dunk couldn’t help it. He started to laugh. At first, he tried to hide it. Slick had delivered such a serious speech to him, after all, and he thought he should try to give the halfling his due. The more he thought about Slick retiring from being an agent to take up ownership of some tavern in a halfling backwater, the harder it became to ignore the humour in it.
When Spinne joined in, Dunk had no way left to resist. He threw back his head and laughed loud, hard, and long until tears streamed down his face and he turned red from lack of breath. Spinne held him tight, her own jiggling frame spurring him to wilder howls of humour. Eventually, they collapsed on top of each other, too worn out for even one more giggle.
“Nuffle’s holy balls!” Slick said. “The least you could do is wait until I’ve left the room before you fall about yourselves in hysterics.”
The thought that Slick might truly be angry with him struck fear into Dunk, but when he opened his eyes to take a look he saw the halfling smiling down at him and shaking his head. “I take it you’re sticking with the team,” Slick said with a chuckle of his own.
Without thinking another second about it, Dunk nodded yes. “It’s strange, I know, but this game, this team, has got into my blood.”
Dunk wiped his face dry and spoke seriously. “After my family’s fall from grace, I wandered around lost and alone for a while. I didn’t know how to get back the life I once had, and truthfully I didn’t know if I wanted it.”
He put his arms around Spinne once more. “With Blood Bowl, I found everything I ever wanted: good friends, true love, and a purpose in life. What more could I want?”
“You’re insane, kid,” Lehrer said. He hadn’t laughed with the others. He hadn’t even cracked a single smile.
“I may have tumbled backward into this life,” Dunk said, “but it’s my life. I’m not going to let the Guterfiends or anyone else take it away from me without a fight.”
8
Dunk heaved the last remnants of his breakfast over the gunwale of the Sea Chariot as it churned onward through the open seas to the south of Estalia. He’d never cared much for ocean voyages, but he seemed to be getting worse about them as he got older. He knew that once he finally got rid of everything he’d eaten, he’d be fine. It would be a long trip to Barak Varr, and he’d have lost a few pounds by the time they got there, but he’d survive.
Spinne handed Dunk a skin of Hater-Aid. Dunk didn’t normally care much for sports drinks, but they seemed to be the only thing he could keep down when onboard. He thanked her for it, taking care not to assault her with the scent of his breath as he did so.
“Dr. Pill says he has something that can settle your stomach,” Spinne said as she rubbed a comforting hand up and down his back.
“Somehow, I don’t find that news reassuring,” Dunk said. He looked over his shoulder and saw the skinny elf raise the eyebrow over his white patch at him with an expectant grin. “I think I’ll take my chances with the seasickness. I can’t believe we brought him along.”
“After how much good he did for our team in the Spike! Magazine Tournament, Pegleg became his number one fan. He offered him a year’s contract after the finals.”
“You’re not making me feel any better,” Dunk said, remembering what the apothecary had done to him to get him back on his feet during the game against the Oldheim Ogres.
Slick strode up next to Dunk and leaned next to him on the gunwale, which rose to the top of the halfling’s head. “What luck, eh?” Slick said.
Dunk retched again, and then wiped his mouth on his sodden sleeve. “I don’t feel lucky,” he said.
“Not that, son. I’m talking about the Dungeonbowl. When we destroyed the Reavers — or rather as they self-destructed — I hadn’t thought that it would cost the Grey Wizards their chosen team for their upcoming tournament.”
“I thought for sure that Bombardi would just rebuild the team in time for the start of the games,” Spinne said. “I’m surprised he let the sponsorship get away from him.”
“More likely it was summarily yanked from his clutches,” Slick said. “The Grey Wizards may have a lot of faith in the Reavers’ management, but they like to think their team should have a shot at winning the tournament. It’s hard to rebuild a top-ranked team from scratch in less than three months. If Dirk had stuck with Bombardi, they might have had a chance, but to literally lose every decent member of your team…”
“Did we really kill all of the Reavers?” Dunk asked. “We must have got more carried away than I’d thought.”
Slick shook his head. “Some of them died at our hands, true, but the fans took care of the rest. They were furious that the Reavers made the best game in the region not get past the first five minutes of play. Seats for a game like that aren’t cheap, you know.”
“No one hurt Dirk, did they?”
Slick snorted. “A few of them tried, but he made quick work of them.”
Spinne leaned over to look at Dunk, who still had his head and arms hung out over the gunwale. “You still haven’t talked to him?”
Dunk shook his head. “I couldn’t find him before we left Magritta. You’d think he was the one with a price on his head. I left a message for him at the Bad Water, though. Sparky said he’d deliver it if he saw him.”
“Good idea,” Spinne said. “That was always his favourite watering hole in town. If he hasn’t left town already, he’s sure to end up there.”
Dunk slumped down with his back against the gunwale, sitting next
to where Slick stood. “He told me something else funny too. Sparky, I mean. He said he hated Gunther the Gobbo with a passion.”
“Who doesn’t?” asked Slick. “He’s as loved as the plague.”
“But Gunther was waiting for me that night Sparky showed me the secret tunnel out of the Bad Water. He said Sparky was his friend. That’s why he knew about the secret tunnel and where it let out.”
“So the Gobbo’s a liar now?” Slick said in mock horror. “Quick, someone get me Lästiges! This is big news!”
“One of Sparky’s real friends probably owed Gunther some money,” Spinne said.
“Maybe,” Dunk said. “It just seems strange. I mean, he was right there waiting for me.”
“I wonder how Lästiges is doing,” Spinne said. “She and Dirk seemed to be getting fairly serious.”
“You think she’ll dump him now that he’s quit playing Blood Bowl?”
Spinne shrugged. “She’s always been a glory hound. Dating an ex-player isn’t nearly as glamorous as being seen with someone who’s still in the game.”
“Yet another good reason for me to stay with the game myself,” Dunk said. He fended off a half-hearted punch in the arm from Spinne. “Don’t you find professional athletes intriguing?” he asked her playfully.
“I spend far too much time with them,” Spinne said. “They mostly bore me to tears.”
“I guess I’ll have to try harder to entertain you,” Dunk said.
“Don’t bother,” Spinne said. “You’re the exception that proves the rule.”
Cavre walked across the deck of the ship towards the trio at the gunwale, a wooden bucket swinging in one hand. He moved with the surety of a man who’d spent many an hour on the sea, a broad smile on his face.
“Dunk,” said Cavre. “The captain would like to see you.”
Dunk’s stomach twisted again at the idea of having to chat with Pegleg. They hadn’t said much to each other since the victory ceremony and trophy presentation at the end of the Spike! Magazine Tournament. Dunk had spent all his time avoiding the public eye while his coach had basked in it.
Pegleg had worked a long time to forge a championship team, and he seemed determined to make the most of it. Every time Dunk sat near a crystal ball, it seemed that one reporter or another was interviewing Pegleg about the Hackers and their victory. Some of the questions inevitably centred on Dunk and the price on his head.
“What’s it like when your star player has a massive price on his head? Doesn’t a million crowns seem a bit excessive?” one goblin asked on ESPNN (the Extraordinary Spellcasters Prognosticated News Network).
Pegleg smiled and said, “We’re very proud of Mr. Hoffnung and his contributions to the Hackers, so we understand why this mysterious malefactor would value him so highly. However, I’d like to question the authenticity of this mad wizard’s bounty. It’s clear he doesn’t have the kind of treasury required to back up such an amazing offer.”
“Are you saying Schlechter Zauberer is a liar?”
“He’s clearly insane. Is he a liar if he’s mad enough to believe his own ludicrous tales? Let’s just say I doubt there’s a reward of any kind and leave it at that.”
Pegleg had hammered at the same point over and over, on every show that would have him: CNN (Corpse-Necromancer News), CBS (Crystal Ball Service), NBC (Nymphomantic Bardic Casters), ABC (Auguristic Bestial Clairvoyants), and even Albion’s ITV (Itinerant Telepathic Visionaries). The most incredible spot had been on the “Impaired and Unbalanced” Cox News, which aired live the night before the Hackers set out from the port city of Luccini on the southwest side of the Tilean Peninsula.
“Don’t you think that this Dunk Hoffnung placed the reward on his own head as a means of distracting the people of the Empire from noticing the fact that no one in power in Altdorf has any clothes?” asked anchorman Dill O’Really.
“Are you saying nudity is now in fashion in Altdorf?” Pegleg said with a leer.
“By avoiding my question, you’re tacitly acknowledging Hoffnung’s part in the vast daemon-winged conspiracy that operates politics in the Old World these days.”
“Nothing of the sort, Mr. O’Really, such accusations sound like they might have come only from the mind of a madman like Mr. Zauberer himself.”
The interview had gone sour when O’Really consulted an unfurled scroll on his desk. Then he glanced over his spectacles at Pegleg and asked, “Are you aware of Dunk’s family history?”
“Tryouts for the Bad Bay Hackers don’t involve taking a detailed biography of prospective players. I just care whether or not they can play the game.”
“According to this report published three years ago in the Altdorf Augur, the Hoffnung family was part of a vast scandal involving organised crime, mutant skaven, and the blackest sort of magic.”
“I don’t judge a man by the members of his family.”
“Well, maybe you should. It seems that the Hoffnungs were all run out of town with torches and pitchforks after your friend Dunk got in a fight at a party celebrating his engagement to Lady Helgreta Brecher.”
Pegleg looked like a halfling caught in a battle train’s headlights. “Of Brecher International Conglomerated Holdings?”
“Exactly!”
“Well, Blood Bowl teams are filled with killers and worse. That’s what we pay them for, after all. I don’t see how a simple brawl would be any of my concern.”
O’Really held a painting up for Pegleg to see. “This is an artist’s rendition of what happened that night. Do you see all the daemons flying around, tearing and rending flesh?”
“That’s appalling, Mr. O’Really. I didn’t know that B.I.C.H. employed daemonic help at their galas.”
A smug grin festered on the commentator’s face. “Those daemons you see came to help your Dunk kill a man, Helgreta’s older brother Kügel.”
“Well,” Pegleg said with an uneasy smile. “At least he got the job done right.”
“So you condone the use of daemonic forces in disputes? Can we expect to see you employ such resources in your next game?”
“Only in the finals.”
O’Really didn’t laugh.
“Can’t the captain come out here to talk to me?” Dunk asked. “I’m busy communing with the open sea air.”
Cavre shook his head. “You know it doesn’t work like that.” He handed Dunk the bucket he carried. “Try not to make too much of a mess. His mood is worse than usual.”
Dunk rolled his eyes as the next wave caught the ship’s bow. “How much worse can it get?”
“That’s the kind of question a wise man never asks.”
Dunk got to his feet, clutching the bucket before him in both hands. He nodded his goodbyes to Spinne, Slick, and Cavre before heading to the captain’s cabin. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, dive overboard and save yourselves,” he called back.
Dunk knocked on the captain’s door and heard the man call, “Enter!” Then he slipped inside the cabin and shut the door tight behind him.
Dunk had been on many other ships, but he’d never seen a captain’s cabin like Pegleg’s. The windows and portholes had all been painted black and covered over with thick, red curtains, which made the place as dark as a cave. Scrolls, furled and unfurled, filled every nook and cranny of the room that didn’t have a bit of furniture crammed into it or a framed picture hung on it. These featured scouting reports on all of the teams the Hackers might have to play, including rosters, health reports, playbooks, and even the kinds of dirty tricks each team had historically favoured or was known to have in production.
A massive crystal ball sat perched on a low table in one corner of the room. A scene from the Spike! Magazine Tournament finals played within it, sending a ghostly light flickering around the room. The only other light came from an oil lamp that hung from the ceiling over the red velvet couch on which Pegleg sat hunched over the low, wide table before him. Papers of all sorts covered the table, held in place by the Spike! Magazine trop
hy, a mithril spike held in a mailed and spiked fist thrust upward in victory.
“Sit, Mr. Hoffnung,” Pegleg said, gesturing towards a chair across the table from him.
Dunk did as he was told. He folded his hands atop the bucket in his lap and waited for his coach to speak. When, after several minutes, it didn’t seem like that would ever happen, Dunk opened his mouth and said, “I want to thank you for sticking up for me, for telling everyone that the reward was a hoax. I think it—”
“Daemons, Mr. Hoffnung?” Pegleg used his hook to push back his yellow tricorn hat. He had worn so many holes in it that it was in tatters.
“I can explain.”
“There are many things I can abide in a player, Mr. Hoffnung, but even I have to draw the line at consorting with daemons. If that’s how you intend to conduct yourself, I’ll speak with Slick about selling your contract to the Chaos All-Stars.”
Dunk perched on the edge of his seat. He thought that maybe Pegleg would be upset with him, but he hadn’t expected to be traded away — especially not to the Chaos All-Stars. That was a team with a reputation for forcing players to stick to the letter of its contract by unspeakable means.
“But, coach, I didn’t consort with daemons. Don’t tell me you’re going to take O’Really’s word for it.”
Pegleg leaned back in his couch and brushed his long, dark curls from his shoulders. “Of course not, Mr. Hoffnung, if I had, you’d have already found yourself on your way to meet with your new employers. Why do you think I called you in here?”
Dunk looked down at his bucket. “Some kind of cruel torture for having to answer questions about the reward on me while you’d rather have been crowing about our victory?”
Pegleg allowed himself a thin smile. “Perhaps under happier circumstances. As it is, I need you to explain yourself.”
Dunk closed his eyes and felt the motion of the ocean in his stomach. He’d hoped that he’d put that part of his life far behind him, but he knew better. As the price the Guterfiends had put on his head illustrated, you carried every bit of your history with you wherever you went.
[Blood Bowl 03] - Death Match Page 7
