A Friendly Match
‘Those are our opponents?’
Strahad stared across the dew-soaked grass at the decidedly unimpressive huddle of Hobgoblins. They were as ugly as the rest of their ilk, green-skinned, warty, long of nose and bent of back. They were clad in an assortment of rusted armour and filthy rags, and in the brief time he had observed them he had seen enough nose-picking, flea-hunting and jockstrap-adjusting to last him a lifetime.
Gorp shrugged apologetically.
‘They were the only ones who could make it at such short notice, master. Also, as we are an, err, unknown team.’
‘Unknown? How could that be? Surely my name alone, the name of Strahad, greatest Necromancer of the Old World, was enough to attract teams from far and wide?’
‘Well, it was short notice, master.’
Strahad was placated somewhat by this comment, and chewed it over before pronouncing:
‘I imagine most teams were afraid, Gorp. Afraid of the terrible power of Necromancy.’
‘Oh yes, no doubt, master.’
‘Well, I suppose it’s best to start small, anyway. It is only the lads’ first time out, after all. I hope that miserable bunch puts up some kind of fight, though. Do they have a name?’
‘The, err, Black Marsh Boggers, master.’
‘Boggers?’
‘Boggers.’
Strahad frowned.
‘Very well, send the team out, let’s get this underway.’
The Black Marsh was a foul region not far from Strahad’s tower, a large expanse of perpetually sodden land that resulted from the vast rainwater run-off from the adjoining World’s Edge Mountains. Various Goblinoid tribes and other low creatures made their home amongst its treacherous, fungal, and mosquito-infested swamps. It was a miserable place, but Strahad was impressed by his hosts’ persistence and ingenuity in dealing with its treacherous conditions, as they had constructed something resembling a good piece of land by means of numerous irrigation ditches and dykes.
Several rickety-looking stands had been erected precariously around the sides of the pitch, and were well-filled by a variety of Hobgoblins and lower goblinoids. ‘And If I lived here, I would probably be a Blood Bowl fan too,’ the Necromancer muttered to himself, ‘There’s precious little else to raise one’s spirits.’
Scattered cheers had greeted the appearance of the teams, and despite the humble venue and the even humbler opponents, Strahad could not help but feel a swell of pride as he watched his team shamble onto the pitch. It would still be a week or two until the proper armour and kit he had ordered would arrive, so he had been forced to improvise from the pile of damaged armour that had accumulated in the tower basement. Nevertheless, they had found enough chainmail shirts, iron helmets, gauntlets, pauldrons and spiky bits for everyone, and though it was all held together with horse tack, bits of rope and the odd nail, it didn’t look much different from that of their opponents.
I’m a real Blood Bowl team owner, he thought to himself.
‘If only that jumped-up clown Ezegiel could see me now!’ he said excitedly, a boast tempered only slightly by the muddy stains around the bottom of his robes and the gnats buzzing around his head.
Gorp smiled proudly at his side, looking somewhat leaner after several days of being chased around the training pitch.
The referee, a Goblin in a stained and ill-fitting zebra-striped shirt and cap, blew his whistle, and one of the zombies, with a little magical prompting from Strahad, gave the ball a heavy boot deep into the Hobgoblin half. The rest of the team watched the ball sailing through the air and formed into a pack that began to chase after it. As the Hobgoblins formed lines of blockers to shield the ball, the two groups collided and the middle of the pitch soon turned into a great melee. Strahad watched with fascination as his charges waded into their opponents, punching, kicking and biting everything within reach. Despite the onslaught, the Hobgoblins gave as good as they got, using a more refined blocking technique to keep the undead at arms’ length. Still, it seemed to be going alright, Strahad thought.
‘Master!’ cried Gorp, pointing toward the Boggers’ backfield.
Strahad followed Gorp’s outstretched arm, seeing a lone Hobgoblin bring his arm back and hurl the ball up and over the melee. It was not a beautiful throw by any means, the ball wobbling through the air in an ugly semi-spiral, and in fact it fell short of its target, bouncing once, but ultimately popping into the hands of a team-mate, who had gone hitherto unnoticed by the Stalkers’ players, despite standing all alone in their half.
‘What on-? Somebody get him!’ Strahad cried, but barely had the head of one of his unliving servants turned when the Hobgoblin had scurried into the End Zone. The referee’s whistle blew and a small cheer erupted from the Boggers’ sideline.
‘What-’
‘Touchdown!’ cried the ref, and went to retrieve the ball to set up for kickoff.
The Boggers’ players broke off from the melee and formed a congratulatory huddle in their half, leaving the Stalkers players standing somewhat confusedly and hitting thin air.
‘Stop that, you idiots! They’ve scored!’ Strahad screamed from the sideline. Some of the players turned and began to shamble towards their own end zone in a belated effort to reach the ball.
‘Stop! Stop!’ Strahad roared.
‘Gorp! I thought you’d trained them! Don’t they know anything?’
Gorp nervously rushed out onto the pitch and started to drag the players into formation to receive the kick-off. Strahad shouted commands at his servant but wasn’t honestly sure how a team should line-up for this sort of thing. With the team in something approximating a formation, the referee blew his whistle and the Boggers kicked the ball high into the sky.
‘Catch it!’ Strahad cried as the ball dropped, and the Skaven-Zombie underneath, turning towards his masters’ voice, was struck solidly on the head by the ball and knocked flat on his back.
Strahad covered his eyes and emitted a low moan.
When he opened them again, one of the Boggers’ players was standing arms aloft in the End Zone, brandishing the ball at his cheering team-mates. The referee’s whistle blew again.
For the next forty minutes, Strahad watched open-mouthed as his statuesque team was scored against seemingly at will. When the final whistle blew, he looked at the referee, who was looking at his fingers in confusion as he struggled with numbers he had never previously been asked to count to in a match before. Finally he held seven small green digits aloft.
‘All my efforts, all that money, for this?’ Strahad moaned, rubbing his forehead.
‘We did hurt a few of them, master,’ Gorp remarked. Strahad looked over at the Hobgoblins’ sideline and saw a small pile of moaning bodies being attended to by eager Goblin surgeons.
‘The rate of scoring seemed to slow as we got into them a bit,’ Gorp offered.
‘Hmm, well, not a total loss then I suppose. Still, we’re going to have to face it Gorp, with all my Necromantic prowess, I don’t know much about playing this game. There’s nothing for it, we need to find ourselves a coach.’