For most prospective Blood Bowl team owners, ‘building a team’ means withdrawing a large amount of Gold from the bank (or treasure hoard/tribal chest/clan vault, as appropriate), wandering down to the local Blood Bowl pitches (or slave pens/fighting pits/asbestos mines, as appropriate) and making an offer to any likely-looking players. For Strahad, it had a more literal meaning. For two straight weeks he and Gorp locked themselves within the laboratory. There they picked out the largest, meanest and toughest pieces of once-living bio-organic material they could find within Strahad’s extensive stores. Then they began the laborious process of stitching, moulding and empowering that material with all of the dark arts of Necromancy. Lightning crackled above Strahad’s tower, beasts fled the area and terrible noises came from within, but nearly a week later, down in the laboratory, an exhausted and red-eyed Strahad stood and admired his creations with all the pride of a new mother.
‘Look at them Gorp, aren’t they magnificent?’
Gorp could only agree. Strahad’s efforts had yielded two Golems - mindless automatons, cast not as other Golems were, - either from the power of the elements, or from the ingenuity of engineering, but from the twisted magic of Necromancy and the raw material of human (and other unspecified donors’) flesh. They stood perhaps seven feet tall, with raw-muscled limbs as thick as tree branches, and horrifying faces that were a grotesque mockery of man. As they gazed upon them, the eyes of the Golems gazed back, expressions somewhere between fear and hatred playing across their misshapen visages.
‘These are the foundation Gorp, but only the beginning! We’ve a whole squad to fill.’
He withdrew a crisp, freshly-inked scroll from the folds of his robes.
‘I had this sent over from the official league administrators. It lists their various rules and regulations, and according to this section regarding squad composition, well, it all gets rather complex, but the gist of it is simple enough. We’re going to need zombies, Gorp, lots of zombies.’
That same night, Strahad found himself in a private room in a coach-house somewhere along the Old Forest road. He tapped his fingers impatiently on the large table before him as Gorp stood and fidgeted at the door. His thoughts were drifting to the complexities of transferring the knowledge of the rules of Blood Bowl to the cerebral remains of the undead, when there was a low rap at the door. He nodded to Gorp, and his servant opened the door to reveal two shifty and black-cloaked men, who entered quickly and silently with the practiced air of those whose movements often require concealing.
‘Good evening, sir,’ one said, in a rough voice thick with affected courtesy.
Strahad nodded curtly.
‘Let’s be quick about this.’
‘Alright sir, well, will you be wanting the usual then?’
‘No, not this time. I have a special request.’
‘Oh really sir? Well do go on, you know we aim to please.’
‘I’m looking for ex-Blood Bowl players.’
The man raised an eyebrow.
‘Going into the sport are we, sir?’
‘It’s none of your business. Can you get them?’
‘Well, sir, ex-players are not in short supply, that’s for sure. Actually the problem more often than not is the state they’re in. They can be a horrible mess, sir. Missing various bits and what-have-you.’
‘Well, do your best. I need nine of them at least. In the best shape you can find.’
‘Any particular race, sir?’
‘No, not fussy. Just make sure they died on the pitch.’
‘On the pitch? What do you mean?’
‘I mean I don’t want some toothless, eighty-year old, retired Orc blocker who passed on from brainrot. I want prime athletic meat.’
‘Very well, sir. You understand of course that for an exceptional request such as this there will be a commensurate exceptional fee.’
Strahad nodded wearily.
‘Yes, yes, of course. I always pay for a good service, do I not?’
‘You do sir, very generous and reliable you are, sir.’
‘Good. Then I will take my leave.’
It was a frustrating two weeks before Strahad received word from the grave-robbers that his order had been fulfilled. He had Gorp prepare a cart, and the two of them set off together in the dead of the night to the appointed meeting spot on the main road through the forest. It was the kind of place at the kind of time that ordinary men would avoid like the plague, but Strahad was no ordinary man, and Gorp was, well, Gorp.
The grave robbers were punctual, their heavy wagon trundling noisily and with some haste behind the thudding hooves of its horses. They looked very much how one might imagine grave robbers, with a sallow and sinister aspect to their faces, and sable-clad and cloaked. Nevertheless, the one who spoke up had an almost cheery disposition as he jumped down from the cart and threw the back open for Strahad's viewing pleasure.
‘Please feel free to inspect the merchandise, sir, while I run through the inventory.’
Strahad ran a practiced eye over the contents of the cart. Five Humans, two Orcs, two Skaven, some kind of Elf and a Dwarf. No missing limbs, though there were some nasty gashes and gouges, and a couple of missing eyes. They were reasonably freshly dead, with little apparent decay.
‘So we’ve got four Humans here who all died of heart attacks after a Lightning Bolt, excellent condition. Then there's this big lad here, he was killed by a chainsaw through the guts, but no issues with the integrity of the torso. The two Skaven were pummeled by a Treeman, some twigs may still be in the fur, but otherwise good. Orc number one had his brain impaled through the eye, no other issues. Orc number two fell into a spiked pit trap, full of holes but otherwise fine. The Elf died of multiple diseases contracted from a beast of Nurgle. He’s a little older than the others, we had to quarantine the body and sanitise it. The Dwarf was crushed by a runaway Death Roller, multiple broken ribs, but all limbs intact.
Strahad’s face had contorted with amazement and horror at each fresh tale. He had certainly gained an insight into some of the threats his players might face. Why on earth was this game allowed?
‘You seem to have done a good job, gentlemen.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘As arranged, your payment is in that cart over there.’
With a tip of their hats, the two scurried off toward the other cart and were soon trotting off into the night.
‘Well Gorp, let’s get these back to the tower, and tomorrow we’ll see them in action.’
The next morning, Gorp rose early to prepare the bodies for reanimation. They would have been a gruesome sight to any normal man’s eyes, but Gorp appraised them with the discerning eye of a connoisseur. Despite his own physical limitations he hefted the corpses from the cart and brought them into the laboratory with deceptive strength and dexterity. He then began the process of cleaning and preparing the bodies with various oils and potions from Strahad’s extensive collection. He was mostly complete when he heard Strahad’s footsteps coming down the steps.
‘Ah Gorp, hard at it I see, excellent. These will do us well, don’t you think?’
‘Master, I had a thought -’
‘Gorp, for the last time, I will not build you a wife.’
Gorp coloured but continued. ‘No, Master, not that, I was wondering if you had organised the team colours and kit?’
‘Kit? What kit?’
‘Shirts, sir, in the team colours, and armour for the players.’
Strahad’s brow wrinkled as he tried to recall the images of the Blood Bowl players he had seen.
‘I’ll show you Master,’ Gorp said, and began to rummage inside his filthy garments, while Strahad looked on sceptically and with a faint air of disgust. Eventually he pulled forth a roll of parchment, the Champions of Death poster from his room.
‘How long exactly have you had that down there?’ Strahad asked, drawing away, but looked at the crudely painted picture, and after a moment or two of contemplation, saw the thrust of Gorp’s point. This was not not merely a group of excellently animated undead, but a sports team - a team equipped with helmets, shoulder armour, and spiked gauntlets. A team in black shirts that bore the logo of their manufacturer, Orcidas, and their sponsor, the Temple of Morr. The realisation that he could not send a group of naked, partially-decomposed undead onto a sporting field struck him like a firebolt.
‘By Magnus’ beard, Gorp! Why didn’t you mention this sooner? This is going to require even more expense!’
‘Sorry Master. Our players are somewhat irregularly sized too, I suppose that might also present a difficulty.’
Strahad’s face started to develop a look that Gorp had known to fear, and he quickly scurried back to his preparation of the corpses. Strahad marched off to his chamber and relative peace descended on the tower for a short while. When the Necromancer returned, it was with a peeved look that always accompanied any expense.
‘Well I managed to find a stockist through the Cabalvision network, Gorp. It’s cost a small fortune, but we’ll have them looking the part for the tournament. Now let’s get them up and about.’
Gorp stood away from the neat row of corpses he had prepared, and Strahad began a low incantation, soon followed by a range of esoteric hand movements, and within moments a greenish glow began to permeate the room. With a jarring crack, an arm thrust upward, and the first of the corpses twitched into un-life. With a sound not unlike popping corn, all of the once-living creatures were on their feet once more, and beginning their existence as zombies, shambling slowly about at Strahad’s commands. Unbidden, they would fall to their own dimly felt desires, which generally consisted of killing and eating anything that resembled life, but under Strahad’s control, they were as obedient and disciplined as any army regiment.
The Necromancer cast his hands towards the two Flesh Golems, and they too lurched into line with the others.
‘Now, I want you to take them out into the grounds and teach them how to play Blood Bowl.’
Gorp looked back at his master in wide-eyed surprise.
‘Teach them, master?’
‘Yes, Gorp. I’m working on a spell to insert the latest tactical and technical knowledge of the sport directly into their brains. Once it’s complete I won’t need to direct them so specifically on the pitch, but it’s not quite ready yet. For now we’ll do have to rely on whatever they have left in their memories and a bit of old-fashioned practice.’
‘There,’ he said, pointing to a pile of balls. Oval, leather and studded with a row of iron spikes, they were the unmistakable object of Blood Bowl. ‘I had those delivered today. Take them and, well, chuck them around with the boys, or whatever it is you’re supposed to do.’
Gorp looked back at him with an expression somewhere between confusion and terror.
‘I’ll be up in my chamber,’ he said, turning to leave, then turning back in an instant, his eyes narrowing. ‘I’ll be watching though, so no slacking off!’
He strode off, leaving Gorp face-to-decomposing-face with his unnatural charges.
An hour or so later, Strahad felt a nagging sensation interrupting his reading, and remembered suddenly the instructions he had given Gorp earlier. He rose from his chair and wandered over to the balcony. He was met below by the sight of his zombies and Golems lumbering in a pack after the screaming Gorp, who was sprinting across the field with the ball clutched in two hands.
‘Master! Master!’ Gorp cried desperately, his cries fading into the air.
Strahad waved and smiled at his assistant.
‘Excellent work Gorp, that’s the idea!’
He watched for a few moments, impressed with the movement of his reconstituted creations, before striding back into the laboratory with a triumphant air.
‘Why I think we’ll be ready for a friendly match in no time!’ he thought, as Gorp’s screams echoed behind him.