“When I was with the Knights, our team wizard was Olson Merlin.”
An unsettling silence fell over the room. Slick, Cavre, and Guillermo stood with their mouths gaping wide. Even M’Grash stopped picking his nose for a moment, withdrawing a chipped, mucous-coated nail from a nostril large enough to engulf Slick’s head.
“Who?” Dunk said.
“The immortal wizard of Albion,” Simon said, smiling. “It’s said he’s cursed to wander this earth forever — or until he finds the cup and drinks his own blood from its gold-lined bowl.”
“Now that’s what I call an incentive clause,” Slick said.
5
Most nights during the Spike! Magazine Tournament, Blood Bowl fans in Magritta packed the wharf-side tavern known as Bad Water to the rafters. When Dunk and Slick entered the place, though, just after the game after theirs had started, the place was half empty. The bartender, a sun-worn dwarf with a long, damp beard, waved the pair over from behind a thick, wooden bar that bore the scars of countless fights.
“Well met, Sparky,” Slick said to the bartender. “Get us a round of Killer Genuine Drafts, would you?”
“Got a special on Poor’s Silver Bullets,” Sparky said. He narrowed his eyes at his two new customers. Thanks to a narrow shelf that ran the length of the bar’s interior, about three feet off the ground, his eyes met Dunk’s at the same height. “Neither of you werewolves, are you?”
“No!” Dunk said, startled at the implications. His head snapped about so he could glance at the other patrons, and he wondered how many of them might transform into a wolf as night fell.
Slick smirked. “You get a lot of that sort around here, do you?”
“Just enough that it pays to ask.” Sparky used the end of his beard to wipe up some of the spilled beer on the bar in front him.
“What happens?” Dunk asked.
Sparky cursed as his tangled beard caught on something white and jagged sticking out of the bar. He reached under the bar and brought out a long pair of rusty pliers. “Ever seen a man try to tear through his belly and rip out his own stomach?”
Dunk shook his head as Sparky yanked at the white thing with his pliers. After a moment of wiggling back and forth, it popped free. Sparky smiled and held the thing up to the light: a long, jagged tooth over two inches long. Blood coated the part of it that had been shoved into the bar.
“I thought Kurtz left something behind.” Sparky wiped the thing clean with his beard, and then stuffed it into a pocket on his shirt.
“Kurtz?” Slick asked. “The starting blitzer for the Orcland Raiders?”
Sparky nodded. “He’s a big fan of your Hackers, he is. Had a hundred gold on you in the game. When Dunkel got kicked out of the game, he had a fit. Threatened to kill every All-Stars fan in the bar.”
Dunk smiled. “Too bad he lost then.”
Sparky stuck the end of his beard into his mouth and started sucking on it. “Oh, he didn’t lose,” he said around the blood- and beer-soaked hair. “You should have seen the other guys. Took our cleaning crew three buckets of clean water to mop it all up.”
Slick looked at Dunk, then said, “We’ll take a couple of Killers, Sparky.”
The dwarf shrugged and went to pull a pair of pints for them. “Suit yourselves.”
A crystal ball hung in one corner of the ceiling over the bar. Bob and Jim’s voices blared out of it, but Dunk ignored them, concentrating on the images instead. Slick remained quiet while waiting for the beers to arrive, for which Dunk gave thanks.
“Dirk and Spinne look good,” Slick said as Sparky slid a pair of commemorative steins in front of Dunk. The thrower tossed Sparky a coin for the drinks, which the dwarf tucked somewhere into his snarled mess of a beard.
“They always do.” Dunk didn’t feel much like talking, but he knew that Slick could never stay silent for long. “Who are they playing again?”
“The Evil Gitz,” Slick said. “A goblin team from the Badlands.”
“They don’t look like much.”
Slick smiled and sipped his beer. “They’re not.”
“How’d they make it to the playoffs then?”
“Same as always. They play dirtier than anyone else around. This time around, I hear they managed to find mostly halfling teams to play.”
“Ah,” Dirk nodded. “So that’s what happened to the Tinytown Titans. I saw the funeral procession last Tuesday: sixteen little coffins headed for the cemetery.”
“It’s getting awful crowded up there, son,” Slick said. “The game’s more violent than ever, these days.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only been at it for a year. Fatal is still fatal, as far as I can see.”
Slick pursed his lips for a moment before taking another belt of his beer. “Ever think about giving it all up?”
Dunk stared at Slick as if he’d just sworn off food. He peered around the top and sides of the halfling’s head and said, “Did you get hit by a flying body part during the game? You practically begged me to give Blood Bowl a crack, and now you want me to walk away?”
Slick stuck up a short, thin finger. “I never said that, son. I only inquired as to your own feelings on the matter. After all, you’ve seen a lot of death in your short time in the league. I just want to know where you stand.”
“Why?” Dunk said, leaning closer to Slick. “You worried I’m going to quit and leave my salary behind — along with your cut?”
Slick scowled and pressed a hand to his chest. “That hurts, son. That really hurts. You think just because I’m half your size my heart doesn’t beat as fast? Do you think I don’t care?”
“I think you’re an agent, Slogo. You didn’t get the name ‘Slick’ for your way with the lady halflings.”
Dunk took a long pull from his beer too. When he finished he saw Slick staring at him aghast. “Hey,” Dunk said in awe, “you’re serious.” He leaned forward to apologise, but Slick pulled back.
“No,” Slick said, putting his hands in front of him. “I deserve it I suppose. I’ve put a lot of effort into farming that image, so I shouldn’t be surprised when even my closest friends buy into it too.”
“What are we buying here?” a high-pitched crackle of a voice said off to Dunk’s left. It could only belong to one person, and the thought made the thrower groan out loud.
Slick and Dunk turned as one to see a pale, greasy creature with wide, bloodshot, baggy eyes and a large, wart-coated nose over a wide, repulsive smile that showed a mouth of blackened and broken teeth. His oily hair hung in long, dirty locks over his face and broad, bald pate, except where he’d drawn it back into a greasy ponytail that looked like a fire hunting for a match.
“Gunther the Gobbo,” Dunk said, ignoring the hand Gunther stretched out in greeting. “You’re looking well.”
“Thanks, lad!” the Gobbo said. “I’m glad someone’s finally noticed how I’m trying to better myself.” Dunk grasped the edge of the bar to keep himself steady, as the odour of Gunther’s breath threatened to knock him over. The thrower picked up his stein and did his best to breathe through his beer until the vertigo passed.
“We were having a private conversation,” Slick said, glaring at Gunther with open disdain. “No one around here is interested in doing any kind of business with you.”
“So you say, so you say.” Gunther grinned, and Dunk feared that several of the Gobbo’s teeth might decide it was better to dive from his polluted mouth than remain there a moment longer. “But you’re involved in Blood Bowl, and Blood Bowl is my business. Sooner or later, everyone thinks they have a sure thing in a game, and that’s when they come to place their bets with me.”
“There’s no such thing as a sure thing,” Dunk said. “Didn’t the Black Jerseys teach you that?”
Gunther’s smile fell into his face. “Kid, you’re not suggesting I had anything to do with that horrible group of game-fixing players, are you?” He spoke louder than ever, his voice warbling with nervous energy.
&nbs
p; “No,” Slick said, trying to wedge himself in between Gunther and Dunk. “He’s not suggesting anything.”
Gunther stared into Dunk’s eyes as the thrower remembered how the notorious bookie had tried to draft him into that “meta-team” of Blood Bowl players who worked with him to force the maximum profit from the multitude of fans who wagered on the big games. He’d managed to avoid that until the Game Wizards from the Wolf Sports Cabalvision force had put an end to the Black Jerseys’ reign.
The Gobbo let his eyes fall to the ground. “All right then,” he said, his voice tinged with regret. “I thought businessmen like ourselves could let the past stay in the past.”
Slick gasped. “You’re starting them back up again, aren’t you? I’m surprised any respectable player would come within ten feet of you of his own accord. What will you call your group of crooks this time? The Black Benchwarmers?”
Gunther scoffed, bringing up a hunk of dark phlegm that landed on the bar. Sparky reached over and wiped it up with the end of his beard. “Poor’s Light for you, Mr. Gobbo?” the dwarf said.
“Make mine a Bloodweiser,” Gunther said. “Got to support the sponsors of my pre-game show on the Extraordinary Spellcasters Prognosticated News Network, after all.”
“I thought you were with Wolf Sports,” Dunk said. “Get fired?”
Gunther’s greasy smile returned. “Let’s just say I saw a better future with ESPNN.”
“So you’ve reformed entirely,” Slick said, shaking his head.
Gunther sniggered. “You and your lad here have nothing to fear from me,” he said. “I’ve given up buying players.” He leaned in and whispered, “It’s far more economical to purchase referees instead.”
Dunk nearly spit out his beer. “Wait,” he said. “What happened in the game today. You didn’t—”
“I didn’t do anything,” Gunther said, wearing his mock innocence like a halfling’s dress. It didn’t do anything to really cover him and looked horribly inappropriate. “Those were some really awful calls though.” He patted Dunk on the shoulder with a slimy paw.
Dunk shrugged off the hand. He wanted nothing more than to tear off the Gobbo’s head and hurl it across the room. He clenched his fists instead and spat out, “We lost eleven good players today.”
Gunther shook his head, unaware of Dunk’s designs on it. “That’s why it’s called Blood Bowl, right? At least your finest players made it through. It’s survival of the fittest at its best!”
“I ought to kill you right here,” Dunk said.
“Hey, kid, don’t take it personally. It’s just business after all.” Despite his jovial manner, Gunther started to back away. Then he stepped forward again and whispered, “Be sure to tell Pegleg that, for the right price, things could start to go the Hackers’ way again.”
Dunk gritted his teeth and brought up his hands to lunge at Gunther, but before he could Slick leapt from the top of his barstool and thrust his fingers into the bookie’s watery eyes.
Stunned, Dunk froze where he stood and watched as Gunther screamed out in pain. Slick landed on the bookie’s chest and started to hammer at him with his little fists, giving everything he had in his murderous rage.
Sadly, it wasn’t much. The blows bounced off the Gobbo’s corpulent head and shoulders like rain on a helmet.
“Get off!” Gunther squeaked, shoving Slick away from him and catapulting the halfling over the bar.
Dunk thrust himself up and backward and reached out with both hands, catching Slick between them. He hauled his little friend back in and cradled him in his arms like a child, protecting him as he crashed down behind the bar.
Everyone in the bar had turned to watch the fight. As Dunk and Slick disappeared behind the bar, the onlookers all gasped and fell silent. When Dunk sprang back to his feet, holding Slick up in his hands like a prized trophy, the rest of the patrons cheered at the top of their lungs — all but Gunther, who skulked out of the bar as fast as his podgy legs would carry him.
As Dunk set Slick down on the bar, the halfling scooped up his stein and sent it flying after the bookie. It shattered on the doorframe just as Gunther raced through it.
Once Gunther left, Slick turned around and dusted himself off. As he did, he looked down at Dunk and said, “Do you still think the league’s no more dangerous than normal, son?”
Dunk shrugged. “How could it get much worse?”
A gentle rain fell on Magritta the next day as Dunk, Slick, Cavre, M’Grash, Simon, Guillermo, and Pegleg stood by the graves of their fallen friends. Thunder rolled in the distance, but Dunk never saw any lightning to go with it. Three other groups of players huddled together at other points in the cemetery, each of them mourning their own losses.
One of them, a group from the Oldheim Ogres, sang a dirge that reminded Dunk of nothing more than whale songs. Slow and mysterious, it moved him, although he could not understand a word of it.
M’Grash, on the other hand, wept like a battered child. Some claimed that being raised by human parents had stripped the ogre of the savagery that was his birthright. The way the Oldheimers wailed for their lost compatriot, though, Dunk wondered if all ogres were like his friend under their ferocious facades.
A band of Norscans from the Thorvald Thunderers cheered off to the west. From the slurring of their songs, Dunk guessed they’d been there since daybreak, toasting their friend’s toasted remains atop a burnt-out pyre that had stayed lit throughout the night.
Off in the distance, Dunk spotted a trio of lovely, pale women dressed in black corsets. They didn’t seem to be part of any entourage of mourners, instead watching each of the ceremonies intently. The thrower nudged Slick and nodded at the blanched beauties.
“Them?” Cavre said softly. “They’re recruiters for the Deathmasques, an all-undead team. That blonde one in the middle is their coach, Rann Ice.”
Slick scowled. “It used to be those bloodsuckers would at least wait until nightfall before coming around, looking for fresh kills. Damn Sun Protection Fetishes. SPFs like those have ruined the traditional night games.”
“I thought this was hallowed ground,” Simon said. “Don’t their sort have to stay far away from here?”
Everyone looked to Pegleg. The coach hadn’t said a word since they’d entered the cemetery. He’d taken off his yellow tricorn then and let the rain mat down his normally curly locks, but not a word had crossed his lips. He’d just walked from one grave to another, spending a few minutes staring down at each as if he could engrave some additional words on the gravestones with invisible beams from his eyes.
After a moment, Pegleg detected the silence, and his head snapped up. “What, me hearties? What is it?”
Without a word, Cavre pointed at the three vampires standing to the east. Pegleg’s face flushed as he spotted them, but it faded just as quickly. “What? Do I look like a priest?”
“Isn’t this hallowed ground?” Simon asked.
Pegleg sucked in his lips for a moment, then shook his head. “No. These poor souls didn’t rate such treatment.” He stabbed his hook toward a hill to the north, a grassy patch of land that looked down over the city below and the sheltered bay beyond.
“Don’t you — doesn’t the team have enough money to pay for it?” Guillermo asked.
Slick slapped him on the back of the leg, and the Estalian realised he’d made a terrible gaffe. He started to apologise to Pegleg, but the coach raised a hand to cut him off.
“Only the greatest players are buried on the Hill of Fame, which is hallowed by priests of a dozen denominations. You can’t buy your way into it. You have to earn it.” Pegleg glared down at the eleven gravesites before them. “None of these fine people were granted that honour.”
“So now these teams of undead can recruit our friends at will?” Dunk said with a visible shudder.
Cavre spoke up. “They only want the best players, Mr. Hoffnung. Players who cannot survive a match don’t meet their needs.”
Dunk cocked his h
ead, confused. “If they’re not recruiting, then why are they here?”
A white smile cracked Cavre’s dark-skinned face. “They are recruiting, Mr. Hoffnung. They’re looking for the better players — those who survived: us.”
A silent terror fell over the Hackers. Dunk wondered how powerful the vampires were and if he and his friends could manage to leave the cemetery alive. Before he could say anything though, a mighty roar erupted from the west, and he looked over to see the Norscans come stampeding across the cemetery toward them.
A moment later, the Norscans veered around the Hackers and headed straight for the three pale ladies. Just as the Thunderers reached the vampiresses, though, they faded to mist and disappeared. For a moment, Dunk thought the Norscans might turn on each other for lack of a clear foe, but then another cheer went up as the man who carried the keg of ale finally caught up with the others.
The Hackers turned to each other and smiled. Although they’d lost nearly a dozen of their number, they somehow managed to find room in their hearts for a hint of laughter. Dunk felt a good deal better because of it.
“On that note,” Pegleg said, drawing attention from the Thunderers and back to himself again, “I have some good news and some bad news.”
The Hackers each composed themselves and readied themselves for their coach’s revelations. He cleared his throat hard before he began, covering his mouth with his hook.
“The Grey Wizards have pulled their sponsorship of us.” Pegleg waited a moment for that to sink in. “We are no longer invited to play in the Dungeonbowl Tournament. Instead, they will return to using the Reikland Reavers as their representatives.”
Dunk frowned. In one way, not having to play in the Dungeonbowl was a relief. So soon after losing eleven players, he found the arena held few thrills for him. He didn’t know when he’d be ready to return, but not so soon he’d hoped. It seemed his wishes had come true.
On the other hand, he didn’t want the Reavers to take the Hackers’ place. That meant Dirk and Spinne would be at risk again. They survived their game last night — won it, even. Even though he’d seen them risk death week after week for the past year, he worried about them now in a way he hadn’t considered before.
[Blood Bowl 02] - Dead Ball Page 5
