Hoppo's Pies

by Guy Haley

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  Hoppo’s Pies – Guy Haley

  About the Author

  A Black Library Publication

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  Hoppo’s Pies

  by Guy Haley

  The glory days of the Grotty Stealers were far behind. Coach Diglit swung his legs despondently on the subs bench as the shower of snottle piddle the club’s owner liked to call ‘players’ tried their best to get every rule of the game wrong.

  There are not a great many rules in Bloodbowl, so they were very close to achieving their goal.

  The Stealers were practising their chuck play – very, very badly. Captain Snirbad ‘The Cobbler’ Greenguts was bossing the team about, making things worse. Diglit’s catchers Gufberk and Fugwit invariably ran the wrong way as soon as snotling Ned was tossed down the field, if Ned even left the giant, scaly claws of Ozbog the troll. They were on Ned Five, or maybe Ned Six, that day. Diglit counted better than most goblins, but it had been a struggle getting over five since the accident. Within the iron sleeve of his prosthetic claw, the stump of his left arm twinged at the memory. The worst time to fumble a catch was when the ball had been replaced with a juvenile cave squig.

  Mork and Gork, his head hurt. It could have been the fungus brew he drowned his sorrows in or the high level of job stress, but it was probably both. He had loved being a player and hated his career change. The coach’s cap weighed on his head like a stone troll’s bottom.

  ‘Nah! Over there, stupid!’ shouted Snirbad.

  The squealing of a lineman cut through his brain. The team’s sole orc, Nork the Dork, was laughing like a drain. Diglit shuddered and hunkered down, his long ears drooping sorrowfully.

  The play was too painful to watch. His eyes were drawn to the balding pitch, then to the bench he sat upon. The paint was flaking off; the wood beneath was grey and rotten. The stadium was in a sorry state. The west stand had burned down five years ago, and was now a pile of weed-choked, fire-blackened timbers. The east stand had more holes in its roof than tiles and every rail of the spiked iron fence he’d put in to keep the opposing fans apart was bent. The turnstiles were crooked, the ticket booth boarded up for want of money to buy new glass after the last riot.

  It had not always been like this. Diglit remembered the stadium when it was packed with goblins of all types, stamping and singing as he, Diglit, caught the ball and raced away towards another touchdown. The ghostly wailing of squig pipes echoed from some far away place. The remembered roar of the crowd was a torment. All that had been before he had lost his arm. The crowds these days were thin.

  Diglit blinked. Movement caught his attention at the corner of the field. Not the furtive movement of goblins, but the confident swagger of… a dwarf?!

  Diglit’s gripped the bench. Splinters dug into his remaining hand. The pincer of his claw crunched through the wood.

  ‘Oi!’ he shouted, shooting upright. ‘Oi!’

  He marched across the patchy turf, kicking an errant squig out of the way in anger.

  ‘What you doing here, stunty?’ he shouted.

  The dwarf was wearing a riveted construction helmet polished to a high shine, and a fine set of armour. A human came out of the ruins of the west stand as Diglit approached. He slowed, his natural goblin cowardice triumphing over his indignation. Hope tacked itself onto this quick emotional switch. The duo were builders of some sort, that much was clear from their clipboards, helms and interesting collections of coloured quills tucked into their top pockets. For the tiniest sliver of a second, Diglit thought that maybe, just maybe, Boss Grobblehod had sent them to rebuild the west stand.

  Of course, life didn’t work out like that. Especially Diglit’s life.

  ‘Ah, er, well well!’ said the man, who sweated nervously in the goblin’s direction. ‘Coach Doglet is it?’

  ‘Diglit,’ said Diglit, grinding his pointy teeth together. The man was twice his weight, but seemed worried about something.

  ‘Quite,’ the man checked his clipboard. His face did the little, complex dance of a man engaged in an internal monologue he is unwilling to share. The dwarf glared at Diglit without blinking. Eventually, the human looked up. ‘Weren’t you informed?’ he said sheepishly.

  ‘Of what?’ said Diglit. He folded his arms over his grubby Stealers jersey. His prosthetic claw dug into his armpit.

  ‘Of the survey,’ said the man. ‘We’re here to look the stadium over. Boss Grobblehod is selling it off, didn’t you hear?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No wins, no team,’ said the dwarf. He smiled, displaying two rows of gold teeth. His voice was so deep it hurt the goblin’s ears. ‘Boss Grobblehod isn’t pleased with you, little greeny. Prime land, this. Make an excellent place for real estate. Actually,’ said the dwarf with an expression of mock realisation, ‘he might have bought your hopeless band only to get his hands on your stadium. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘What?’ said Diglit.

  ‘Not for goblins. No,’ said the dwarf, answering a question Diglit hadn’t asked. His smile grew, making his black beard bristle. ‘Filthy things. All this is going to be tree house condominiums for elves.’ He whipped out a leaflet from his back pocket. Leafy Heights, it read. Arboreal Life for the Discerning Fey. ‘They don’t smell. And they pay their bills.’

  ‘Mr Hoffsonsson,’ admonished the man. ‘There is no need to be so… racist.’

  Hoffsonsson mumbled something under his breath, his psychotic smile still plastered over his face.

  ‘What?’ said Diglit again, but it came out as a pathetic squeak this time.

  ‘It’s all here, I’m afraid,’ said the human, holding out his clipboard. A sheet of paper dense with words was thrust into Diglit’s face. He had time to read precisely none of it before it was snatched away. ‘If that’s not good enough for you, you can speak with the boss himself…?’

  The man let his question hang. Diglit had no wish to see Boss Grobblehod.

  He looked from the feigned sympathy of the human to the undisguised hatred of the dwarf. His temper snapped.

  ‘I remember this place when it was full of goblins, cheering us all the way to the touchline,’ he said. ‘We’s just in a rough patch, is all. I’ll make the Stealers great again, you’ll see! We’s got a match tomorrow, and we is gonna win!’

  A horrible scream echoed around the dilapidated stadium. It didn’t seem physically possible, but Mr Hoffsonsson’s grin got even bigger as he stared past Diglit at the players.

  ‘Good luck with that, greeny.’

  Diglit spun around. Goblins were running in every direction. Ozbog the troll was scratching his behind with one hand. In the other, he held half of Ned. His eyes stared off into that distant realm only the truly moronic can see. His jaw worked round and round on a tricky piece of grub. Ned’s head, for sure.

  ‘No no no no no no no no!’ said Diglit. ‘You two, wait here!’ Then he took off, sprinting back through careening greenskins to the centre of the pitch.

  Only Snirbad and Nork the Dork were still in place. Snirbad was kicking a linesman in the head; Nork the Dork was bent double, laughing at the violence so hard his drool spattered the field.

  The snotling’s skull cracked noisily in Ozbog’s mouth.

  ‘No! No! Bad Ozbog, bad!’ shrieked Diglit, waving his hands up at the troll. ‘You’s not supposed to eat ’em, you’s supposed to throw ’em!’

  Ozbog’s eyes slid around to look at the coach, then at the tattered remains of the snotling. He sighed deeply, and with a nonchalant heave pitched the remains of the dead snotling all the way down the field. It hit the rotten pitch siding with
a wet bang.

  Diglit snatched his cap off and jumped up and down on the spot. ‘Not now! While he’s still alive! With the ball!’

  Nork hooted all the louder.

  ‘Don’t know why you’s laughing, orc boy,’ snarled Diglit. ‘You’s so stupid you can’t tell your feet from your hands.’

  Nork’s craggy forehead wrinkled. ‘I does,’ he said slowly. He held up his hand. ‘This is my, um, and this is…’ He stopped, confounded. ‘Er.’

  Diglit blew his whistle. The shrill noise stopped the fleeing greenskins in their tracks. ‘Everyone back here!’ he shouted. ‘You!’ he stabbed his claw at Ozbog. ‘Stay here!’

  Ozbog belched.

  ‘Nork, stop laughing. Snirbad, stop kicking Buksnag in the head.’ Diglit tugged his dirty trousers up. ‘You’s pathetic. You’s rubbish. I’m getting another snotling, and then we’s going to do this properly, right?’

  Diglit stomped off towards the facilities under the east stand.

  ‘The Cobbler,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Be all right if we called him that for some Mork brilliant game reason, like, like if he nailed people’s feet to the ground. Stupid. It’s only his day job, innit? Zogging Snirbad.’

  It was true. The Stealers couldn’t afford full-time pro players any more. His captain was a shoemaker. The rest of them Diglit had drugged, kidnapped, blackmailed or told outrageous lies to in order to get them in the squad. Of the sixteen potential players he could choose from – not counting the snotties of course, there were always hundreds of them – Ozbog and Nork alone were pros, and they were both rubbish.

  He ambled through the tunnel towards the changing rooms, feet splashing through an inch of dirty water. Rippling, reflected light shone on the ceiling. A strong smell tickled his nostrils, a sort of nauseating combination of ancient, unwashed gym socks, mushrooms and snotling droppings. It only got stronger the closer he got to the changing rooms. Not that they used them to actually change in any more, not since the snotlings had escaped from their cages and overrun the place.

  He reached the door. The water was up to his ankles.

  Taking a deep breath he instantly regretted, Diglit lifted up the rusty weight they kept by the door to keep the snotlings in and pushed his way into the dark, dank room.

  A dark, noisome space greeted him. Water ran from the broken shower pipes, staining the tiles yellow. The players’ lockers had been pushed over. Heaped on everything were rancid piles of snot mess. From this soft and treacherous landscape, tall mushrooms reached upwards, glowing greenly. Diglit had a nice sideline in selling those. Maybe he’d throw in the towel and become a mushroom farmer. That would be lovely.

  ‘Here, snotties!’ he called. His voice echoed from vaulted stone and water. ‘Got something for you!’ He fished about in his pocket and drew out a bar of Lustrian Delight he’d sat on. ‘Here, snotty snotty snotty!’ he called. Keeping his guard up – snotlings could be vicious – he peeled the wrapper from the bar. Melted xokolat oozed onto his fingers.

  ‘Snotties! Snack time!’

  There was no reply.

  ‘That’s strange.’ Frowning, he hunted about under overturned footlockers for the snotlings. Normally the place was alive with irritating tittering and the patter of snotty feet. It was suspiciously silent.

  ‘Snotties? Come out! I’s got a lovely bit of Lustrian Delight for you!’

  Still no reply. Diglit went deeper into the room. Still no snotlings. He stopped and scratched his head.

  ‘The only time they all hide is when they is scared,’ he said quietly. ‘And that means…’

  A dark and rumbling voice cut through the gloom. ‘Hello, Diglit,’ it said.

  Diglit whirled about. Looming over him was the coal-eyed silhouette of an orc. A soft splashing announced the arrival of a second. Both were huge, and dressed in identical suits.

  ‘Gitthrog, Throggit!’ he yelped. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

  ‘No it ain’t,’ said the first. Gitthrog, Diglit thought. The two were harder to tell apart than Gork and Mork.

  ‘And it’s Mister Throggit to you, runt,’ said the other.

  ‘You’ve let this place go, runt,’ said Gitthrog, lifting up a foot. ‘You’ve wrecked me boots with all this poop.’

  ‘Mine too!’ said Throggit, seeming affronted Gitthrog hadn’t included his boots in the complaint. ‘And I ain’t happy about that.’

  Diglit managed to open his mouth to speak. He got as far as ‘Gk!’ before a giant green fist the size of a meteor put him into an unwelcome sleep.

  A strange rocking soothed Diglit. It almost made the horrible pain in his head bearable.

  ‘Diglit,’ said a voice.

  ‘Go away,’ he muttered. ‘Sleepy.’

  Something hard drove into his ribs. Diglit’s lungs deflated like a burst squig, and he came awake.

  Diglit was lying bound on the thick purple rug of a carriage. Hooves rattled off cobbles. Wheels clattered. Every few seconds, the carriage bounced painfully. Tight bonds dug into his wrist and ankles, looped about his iron claw and drawn in cruelly so they pressed into his back.

  Three unkind faces stared down at him: Throggit, Gitthrog, and their employer, Wicked Boris.

  Boris was an odd name for a dark elf. Diglit had always thought so. He had no idea why he was called Boris. The reasons for the ‘Wicked’ appended to the front, however, were widely known. There were lots and lots of reasons, but most involved sharp objects, long, final nights in this life and considerable amounts of pain.

  Diglit’s guts turned to water as Boris pulled off his velvet gloves one finger at a time and took out a leather case from inside his fur jacket. From this he retrieved a folded device of metal and glass, which he began to carefully unfold.

  Diglit’s eyes goggled in fear.

  ‘I ain’t got the money!’ he shrieked. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

  The orc twins guffawed. Wicked Boris held up one wicked hand.

  ‘Silence!’ Wicked Boris said. He stared coldly – Diglit might even had said wickedly – from under his shock of bone-white hair. The orcs, though each was four times the elf’s weight, muttered their apologies and looked at their feet.

  The elf finished his unfolding. In his hands were a pair of rose-tinted spectacles, which he placed on his delicate nose. Diglit whimpered with relief.

  ‘You. You told me that you would pay me by last Backerstag. What day is it now, Diglit?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘It is now Wellentag.’

  ‘I’ll get the money!’ said Diglit.

  ‘I’ve given you an extra five days, Diglit. You didn’t come to me and tell me you were going to be late. You haven’t said thank you that I have not yet peeled your head like a little green grape for being late. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you, Diglit?’

  ‘No!’ protested Diglit.

  He had hoped the elf had forgotten.

  Wicked Boris stared out of the window. ‘I suppose you should be commended for your loyalty to that pathetic team of yours. Only a fool bets on an obvious band of losers – only a real fool would borrow the money from someone like me to do so.’ He smiled distantly. ‘You are at least a loyal fool.’

  ‘It was a sure thing! I was robbed.’ What he meant was, the drugs he had put into the Averheim Eagles’ mid-match beer had been fake and had done nothing to help win the game.

  ‘You said that the last five times,’ Boris said. ‘I don’t care for loyalty. I like money. I want my money. You have a match coming up. You better win the money – my money – back. Next time I see you, either give me the money, or–’ he made scissors of his fingers and worked them quickly. ‘Snip snip snip! Grape time.’

  ‘Thanks, thank you, er, sir. Yes. Thanks!’ said Diglit.

  ‘Do not thank me. Gentlemen, show Diglit we mean business.’

  Throgg
it and Gitthrog looked at each other.

  ‘Oh, for the love of Khaine! Hit him!’ said Boris, tossing his hand up in frustration. The scent of lavender accompanied the gesture.

  ‘Nice,’ said Diglit appreciatively. It was better than the stink of snotling droppings coming off the orcs’ feet, anyway.

  The orcs hit him. Plenty of times. The carriage rocked madly as they meted out clumsy orcish violence to his person.

  ‘Enough!’ said Wicked Boris.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Diglit weakly. He spat out a tooth.

  ‘Toss him out!’ said Boris.

  ‘Oh no,’ said Diglit.

  The door creaked open, and he was lofted through the air.

  Diglit had spent his early years as a player being hurled the length of the field by careless ogres. He had learnt how to land properly. Even tied hand and foot he managed to put enough roll into his impact to prevent his neck breaking. But without his arms free, he could not stop the bone-rattling bouncing across the cobbles, or the skin-abrading slide, or the terrible crash into the refuse cans that finally halted him.

  ‘Owwwwww,’ groaned Diglit. Rubbish fell onto his head with a soft, stinking thump.

  Wicked Boris’ carriage thundered away into the night.

  The rope had been loosened by his skid across the cobbles. With some difficulty, he got his arm into a position where a sharp twist of his iron claw could snap it. His arms freed, he snipped through the bonds round his feet. Groaning profusely, the little goblin struggled upright.

  He had come to rest by a boarded-up factory. Clusters of dirty tenements lined a cobbled road. Washing hung limply between them. Although the highway was broad, the district had seen better days. The wood covering the factory windows was pasted over with dozens of last season’s Cabalvision posters, washed white by the rain.

  He had no idea where he was. There was no one about. He couldn’t even tell what manner of creatures lived in the buildings. Lights burned in only a few of the windows.

  Joints popping, Diglit hobbled off the road, past the rubbish. Wincing, he came to a filthy, buckled pavement running alongside the factory, and rested his head against the wall until the pins and needles in his extremities subsided, then set off home.