by Gav Thorpe
The night-goblin eyed the pouch and then peered suspiciously at Kikkit, making note of his kit.
‘Dat’s ten-to-wun, Cretins to beat da Marauders. Was finkin’ of ’avin’ a look when I’m done. Yoo know sumfin I don’t?’
‘Need a lucky day, owe people big-big,’ confessed Kikkit. He gave the night goblin a conspiratorial wink. ‘Ten-to-one for me, maybe not for the next one that comes in, eh? Three thousand here.’
‘I see…’ The greenskin rubbed his hands together with a sly look. He slid a wooden marker over the table and plucked the pouch from Kikkit’s twitching fingers. ‘Right yoo iz. Ten-to-wun.’
Kikkit nodded, took his marker and fled as quick as he could, skirting past the snarling squighounds on his way out.
Even lighter of step, he raced directly back to the pitch, coming overground to the dugout. The stands were starting to fill up with a few diehards, and he found his team-mates sitting on the benches. As he approached, he felt their mood was sober compared to when he had left. Downright glum in fact.
Nerves on edge, he joined the other linesmen.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked, sitting down at the end of the bench.
His companions said nothing but one of them pointed down the road. Coming over the last hill, ponderous but implacable, were two huge figures – gangling giants with leafy limbs and creased bark for skin. Each long stride seemed to take an eternity, moving the figures with the slow inevitability of a root cracking stone.
Treemen. Two of them. Wearing the colours of the Tinklebrook Trotters.
‘Oh,’ said Kikkit.
A flailing limb – a branch to be more precise – missed Kikkit by the smallest of margins as he ducked past the treeman, intent on breaking through the Trotters’ front line. A plucky halfling with a round, jam-stained faced tried to intervene, grabbing at the skaven with pudgy fingers. Skrankor hit the distracted halfling like a bolt of warp lightning, bowling the player into the dirt in a frenzy of gnashing teeth and punches. The stormvermin blitzer ran straight over the unfortunate Trotter, claws tearing cloth and skin and rucking up the dirt.
Kikkit bunched his muscles, ready to pounce on the halfling, but the small linesman was rolling around in a puddle of his own blood. There was no way the commission wouldn’t rule that as already injured. Kikkit glanced to the sidelines to see the league officials standing at the halfway line – two dwarfs and a human with clipboards and styluses.
That had been the tale of the match so far. The halflings were so puny that if they went down, they were likely already hurt. Kikkit had roamed the line looking for unsuspecting targets, but most had already been unconscious, or bleeding, or cradling broken arms or legs.
There seemed to be little shortage of substitutes and a steady stream of cheery-faced Trotters swamped the skaven offence, helped in a large part by the two immovable treemen anchoring the centre of the line. Even Nulk was smart enough to steer clear of the scything swings and entangling roots of the forest giants.
The halflings had somehow scrambled and bundled their way over the line to score first, but a quick response from the Cretins had levelled the game and then gone one score up by the time the whistle blew for half-time. Feeling less cheery about his prospects of getting the season record, which meant winning was neither here nor there as far as he was concerned, Kikkit retired to the dugout with the rest of the team.
They munched on their mouldy rations while the Grey Seers lambasted them for poor tackles, failed passes and missed fouls. Kikkit let his gaze slide over to the visitors, where the halflings were almost lost from view behind baskets filled with iced buns, doughnuts, lollipops, currant buns, cream cakes, candy canes, frosted fruits and malted loaf. In fact, buns, confectionary and cakes featured exclusively in their half-time ‘snack’.
By the time the referee blew his whistle to get the teams back on the pitch, the Tinklebrook Trotters all had a sugar-rush-wild look in their eyes. Twitching and blinking, the halflings lined up, each of them vibrating with unreleased energy. The treemen had barely moved, their roots dug deep into the soil of the pitch, branches stretching far to either side to protect the halflings around them.
The whistle blew and the Cretins received the kick-off, but no sooner had Thork picked up the ball than he was set upon by a shrieking mob of sugar-frenzied halflings. The skaven did their best to protect the thrower, but no matter how hard they punched, kicked and bit, the diminutive Blood Bowlers seemed impervious to pain.
Kikkit suspected there had been something more than sugar in the half-time food – the smug look on the halfling coach’s big red face spoke volumes – but any evidence had been devoured right under the noses of the officials.
He joined the general scrum around the ball, picking his moments to land punches in the backs of unwitting opponents’ heads, chop-blocking the backs of their knees, aiming kicks at their kidneys, but all to no avail.
A few halflings hit the dirt in the general ruck of bodies, but they bounded back to their feet before he could reach them. Frustrated, he lost his cool and waded into the fighting, forgetting his personal mantra of only kicking when the target was down.
No sooner had he made the error than he felt twiggy fingers grasping his arm. He was hoisted out of the melee and tossed bodily across the pitch to land head-first in the crowd. Their snarls and jeers around him, the Cretins’ fans tossed him back onto the pitch, where he sat groggily watching the vague silhouettes of the players dashing around him through a stunned fog.
He heard the whistle blow again and staggered to his feet, thinking the game was over. Despondency turned to relief when he realised the ref was only signalling a score – the halflings had run the ball over the line for a second touchdown.
‘Get over here!’ snarled Quittit, signalling that he was going to replace Kikkit. ‘You’re out on your feet, you useless scat-head.’
‘Don’t take me off, coach,’ pleaded Kikkit. He started bouncing from foot to foot, twitching his tail and trying to look as alert as possible. ‘I can do this! I can do this!’
There was nothing the Grey Seers could do as Kikkit took his place on the line ready for the restart. He lined up next to Nulk, knowing the rat ogre was bound to put down an opponent or two at some point.
Play began again, but Kikkit had no mind for the ball. He shadowed Nulk’s every step, waiting for his moment. The halflings knew better than to stay anywhere near the rat ogre and they scattered from his path.
‘Nobody fight me,’ moaned Nulk. ‘All run away.’
‘There-there!’ squealed Kikkit, spying a halfling limping toward the sidelines in response to a signal from his coach. Just a sprain, in Kikkit’s experienced estimation, not enough to officially count as injured. Yet. ‘Hit-hit!’
The halfling must have heard the lumbering rat ogre. He looked over his shoulder, terror in his eyes, pain screwing up his mouth as he tried to get away on his damaged ankle.
Nulk reached out a long arm and slapped the player across the back of the head, pitching him face-first into the dirt.
‘Yes-yes!’ Kikkit launched himself at the fallen halfling, stamping again and again and again.
But the Trotter seemed to be made out of rubber. Whatever Kikkit did bounced off his armour, or his bulbous gut, or his fleshy thighs, as though stomping on a particularly tough piece of jelly.
He slipped off his spiked elbow pad and gripped it like a knuckleduster ready to stove in the halfling’s face. He lifted back his arm, ready to strike.
The whistle blew for full-time.
With a wordless yell, Kikkit fell to the mossy ground, kicking and flailing in an uncontrolled tantrum.
‘So-so close!’ he screamed.
He lay there for some time, until he felt a shadow fall over him.
‘Get up,’ Skrankor snapped at him. ‘Extra time.’
Extra time?
Kikkit looked at the scoreboard. It was 3-3. A tied game. Extra time.
Sudden death extra time.
Next score won.
He had another chance, but he wouldn’t have long.
He dashed to the sidelines, splashed water on his face and got himself ready for the next play.
Alert to everything now, looking for the narrowest opening in which to strike, Kikkit prowled the periphery of the scrimmage line like a waiting wolfrat.
The treemen reeled from a combined offensive of Nulk and the stormvermin, threatening a breakthrough in the centre. Retreating, the halflings formed a second line not far from the end zone. Thork had the ball in hand, the gutter runners were heading for the end zone…
At this rate, the Cretins were going to score. Kikkit needed to act.
He tripped Thork with his tail, ‘accidentally’ falling on top of the thrower a moment later. Rolling away, he searched the pitch, desperate, heart hammering.
And then he saw his opening.
Just behind the halfling line, next to the end zone, one of the Trotters was on all fours, forehead to the pitch. Perfect.
A gap opened up in the halfling line, between the two treemen.
‘Block-block!’ roared Skrankor, pointing to the breach, no doubt wanting Kikkit to hurl himself into the fray to let one of the stormvermin dash through for the touchdown.
He looked at the endzone, and then at the halfling. That was his choice – go for the season record, or go for the win…?
Kikkit broke into a run, arms and legs pumping. He heard the shouts of the crowd intensifying, become insanely loud but just background noise behind the thunder of his heart and the rush of blood in his ears.
He saw only the gap and the halfling beyond.
To the Horned Rat with victory, he had a try-out to win!
He gathered speed, leaping over a halfling who threw himself in the way, ducking beneath the swiping bough of a treeman, leaves scratching over his helm.
He kinked left and then right, faked a jump and spun past another tackle. Every moment on the training field, every practice run through the food hall, every match up to now had been preparation for this instant.
Time slowed. The halfling by the end zone turned his head, eyes widening in shock, mouth opening to shout. A wall of hairy faces beyond the end zone was going mad, baying with glinting eyes and sharp fangs and raised fists.
Kikkit hadn’t known his record-breaking season had meant so much to anyone else. He recognised some of his fellow workers amongst the throng. He thought he even saw Oversneer Skreet among them, urging him on.
He felt elated and vindicated. So what if the team were all sacrificed to the Horned Rat? Crookback would revel in his fame. They would read the newsrags about the Skavenblight Scramblers, see his name on the team sheets, and they’d nudge each other and say, ‘He was one of ours, you know?’
He planted his lead foot for ready for the punt, picking a point right on the halfling’s chin to aim for.
Kikkit relaxed into the kick, letting momentum and physics do their work.
His rag-bound foot connected solidly, snapping back the halfling’s head with an audible crack. Teeth and blood showered from the Trotter’s jaw as he spun away from the impact.
Such was Kikkit’s impetus he could not stop himself tumbling over the halfling. He became entangled in the strapping of the halfling’s shoulder pad and twisted, falling backwards into an ungainly somersault to land on his backside in the end zone.
His first look was at the halfling. The Trotter was out for the count on the score line, blood trickling from mouth and nose, jaw obviously broken.
His second look went to the league officials. One of the dwarfs met his gaze and gave him the slightest of nods.
Grinning, Kikkit turned back to the pitch to see his whole team converging on him, whooping and shouting.
Nulk swept him up with one hand, raising him onto the shoulders of the waiting linesmen. The Grey Seers and everyone from the coaching staff were running onto the pitch.
Everything was spinning, the roar of the crowd intoxicating.
‘You did it!’ bellowed Skrankor.
The stormvermin gave him a toothy grin, slapped him on the helmet and pointed at Kikkit’s right shoulder.
There, impaled upon the spike, slightly deflated, was the ball.
Kikkit realised he must have accidentally spiked it when he had thrown himself onto Thork.
Not only had he broken the record, he had scored a winning touchdown.
‘I-I did-did it-it,’ he mumbled, echoing Skrankor, not quite believing it had happened.
He had broken the ‘Most Injuries of a Downed Opponent’ record for a single season. The Scramblers were going to give him a try-out. The enforcers of Clan Moulder would be history. No more back-breaking, knuckle-aching work at the cog factory. Gold and warpstone beyond counting.
Next stop, Skavenblight and the Big Leagues.
His voice rose to a shout as he punched the air.
‘I did it!’
About the Author
Gav Thorpe is the author of the Horus Heresy novels Deliverance Lost, Angels of Caliban and Corax, as well as the novella The Lion, which formed part of the New York Times bestselling collection The Primarchs. He is particularly well-known for his Dark Angels stories, including the Legacy of Caliban series. His Warhammer 40,000 repertoire further includes the Path of the Eldar series, the The Beast Arises novels The Emperor Expects and The Beast Must Die, Horus Heresy audio dramas Raven’s Flight, Honour to the Dead and Raptor, and a multiplicity of short stories. For Warhammer, Gav has penned the End Times novel The Curse of Khaine, the Time of Legends trilogy, The Sundering, and much more besides. He lives and works in Nottingham.
In a fantasy world where violence is a way of life, the number one sport is Blood Bowl - Gridiron where anything goes. Dirk ‘Dunk’ Hoffnung, once a barbarian swordsman, is now a rookie quarterback in the toughest football league you’ve ever seen. Follow his career as he goes from Most Promising Newcomer to MVP!
A Black Library Publication
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.
Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Scrape to Victory © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Scrape to Victory, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Blood Bowl, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-612-5
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