The Hunt
If Blood Bowl Player is (as is generally accepted), one of the most dangerous occupations in the Known World, then Blood Bowl Coach cannot be far behind. Besides the very obvious dangers of standing near the sideline of a Blood Bowl pitch, and the not-necessarily-lesser danger of standing near the crowd at a Blood Bowl match (both listed in the top 10 on the Royal College of Surgeons’ ‘most dangerous places in the Old World’ survey) then there is also the large problem of dealing with the team owners, who have their own idiosyncracies very often fatal to coaches. The Chaos All-Stars, for example, once had a policy of eating their coach after every game. Thus it takes an especially motivated (or insane) individual to decide to dedicate himself to that life.
So while the incumbent coaches look nervously over their shoulders for the knives of fans, players and owners, the hopefuls and lower-league prospects sign themselves up at NAF headquarters and wait for the call. Thus it was to the local NAF office in Krugenheim that Strahad ventured in search of a coach to call his own. He strode into the office with all of his usual confidence. He was accustomed to a reaction somewhere between terror and awe when he engaged with city-dwellers. Even if they did not recognise him they could see he was a wizard of some sort, and all right-thinking folk avoided them and their business. Disappointingly, the secretary of the Krugenheim NAF office responded only with a cheery smile. She was a middle-aged woman with a school-matronly air and Strahad found his bravado fading in the face of her refusal to acknowledge his terrifying power.
‘I’m looking for a coach,’ he said with as much gravity as he could muster.
‘Of course,’ she said, barely glancing at him and reaching for a heavy, leather-bound book on her desk. ‘ May I enquire as to the race of your team?’
‘Well...let’s say, Necromantic.’
At this word the secretary looked up and frowned.
‘Are you the team...ah...owner, Mr-?’
‘Strahad. Yes.’
‘Excuse me if I sound somewhat impudent Mr Strahad, but aren’t you supposed to be the coach?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s just well, in our experience, coaching the ah, undead, is somewhat difficult for coaches used to working with more...err..living players. I’ll assume you have the necessary skills to guide your team?’
‘Listen, woman, do you know who I am?’
She shook her head. Strahad was almost too frustrated to speak.
‘I am Seifer Strahad! Scourge of Sylvania! Do you think I concern myself with coaching? I have far better things to do! Now do you have any available coaches or not?’
The secretary looked at him blankly and then sighed and began to leaf through the large book. She turned page after page, occasionally pausing before giving a small shake of the head. After a tortuous few minutes she got to the end, and slammed the book emphatically shut.
‘Well, Mr Strahad, I’m afraid the list of coaches on our books who are willing to work with the Undead is rather small.’
‘How many?’
‘None.’
Strahad had to bite his tongue to avoid unleashing an all-consuming fireball there and then. He counted slowly to ten.
‘None?’
‘None.’
‘Not even one?’
The woman sighed and motioned toward the great book.
‘The book says no, Mr Strahad. Now perhaps you can find yourself some amateur or crackpot to coach your team, but if you’re looking for a NAF-registered coach, I’m afraid we can’t help you.’
Strahad’s eyes narrowed and his fists tightened as he pondered his defeat at this innocuous woman’s hands.
‘Very well. Thank you for your time,’ he said, and with as much of a flourish as he could muster, he drew his robes about him and swept out of the office. As he shut the door behind him, he spied Gorp being accosted by a swarthy peasant. He strode up to the man, sensing the opportunity to blow off some steam.
‘I don’t give to beggars, thank you. Now leave us immediately or I’ll fry your eyeballs.’
The man looked up in alarm, and Gorp quickly positioned himself between the two of them in order to discourage any eyeball-frying.
‘M-Master, wait, did you find a coach in there?’
‘What? No, we’ll talk about it later. What on earth are you up to here? Is this our carriage driver?’
‘Master, this man is a coach. A Blood Bowl coach.’
Strahad eyed the man suspiciously. He was certainly humbly dressed, but upon closer inspection, had apparently taken good care of his appearance. He was perhaps thirty-something, with a full head of dark hair and a thick beard sitting beneath a rugged, tan face..
‘Really?’ Strahad said, addressing the man directly for the first time. ‘Just walking the streets were you?’
The man gave a small bow of acknowledgement.
‘I am not signed with the NAF, Mr Strahad. I cannot afford to pay their fees to advertise my services. I am not too proud to admit that I have come here some days now in the hope of finding a team.’
Strahad detected a strange accent in the man’s voice.
‘You’re not from the Empire.’
‘I am from Verezzo, in Tilea.’
‘Tilea? Do they play Blood Bowl down there?’
The man gave a nod.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Lupoli. Arturo Lupoli, Sir.’
‘Are you aware of the nature of my team, Mr Lupoli?’
‘Your assistant has told me. It is...unusual, but if they can be coached, I can coach them.’
Strahad weighed the man’s words, his body language. There was a confidence and an honesty about him that Strahad was warming to.
‘Hmm...well what’s your experience?’
‘For many years I coached # in Verezzo. I had a good team there.’
‘What brought you to the Empire then?’
‘I made some enemies in Verezzo. Some powerful men did not take kindly to my team beating theirs - they had made an ‘arrangement’ that their team would win. They tried to bribe me and I would not take it.’
‘You’re a man of principle. I like that.’ Though not too principled I hope, he thought to himself.
‘Blood Bowl is a beautiful game. It should be won on the pitch, not in the parlours of the wealthy.’
Beautiful? Strahad wondered for a moment if Lupoli was talking about the same sport he knew. Still, it sounded like the man knew how to win, even in a system run by violent cheats, and Strahad knew enough about Blood Bowl to know that was the kind of man he needed.
‘So what happened then? Why aren’t you coaching now?’
‘I found out my enemies had marked me for death. I decided to flee the city. I arranged passage on a merchant caravan bound for Brettonia. My friend said he would find me work there. But, when the caravan entered the forests of the Empire, it was attacked. I was robbed, wounded, and left for dead. I crawled back along the road with bloodied hands, and luckily the next passing traders on the road found me and saved my life. But with my injuries, and without my friend, I could not find work. Since then, I have done this and that, scraped a meagre living as a servant, labourer and the like. But Blood Bowl is my life, signor Strahad. Give me a chance to coach again and I will repay your faith, I swear.’
It was certainly a good story, Strahad had to admit. If it was true, he might have found himself a rare treasure.
‘Very well, Mr Lupoli, I’ll give you a chance. Consider this your interview-’ He withdrew a small, dark crystal ball from the folds of his robe. ‘That contains a replay of the team’s first match. Tell me what I’m doing wrong.’
Lupoli took the crystal ball eagerly and carefully, as if it were a diamond or bar of gold. In his hands, the darkness faded to reveal the wet and muddy scene of the Stalkers’ first match. For the next forty minutes, Strahad watched painfully as he saw the ineptness of his team’s performance again, but he noted with interest the furrowed brow of Lupoli as the man carefully scrutinised every action on the pitch. As the game came to an end and the crystal ball darkened once more, Lupoli looked up from the vision with a look of consternation.
‘It’s not pretty.’
Strahad scowled.
‘Tell me something I don’t know.’
‘This- this is not Blood Bowl, this is a- zombie attack! This is not a formation, it’s a horde. That defense - there’s holes in there that you could sail a galleon through.’
Strahad’s face rankled.
‘Go on.’
‘You’re lacking any ah- how do you say, finesse.’
Gorp anxiously watched Strahad’s face for signs a punitive bolt might be coming. His master was not known to take criticism well, even when he had asked for it.
‘I’ve got to hand it you, for an amateur-’ Gorp winced at the word, ‘You’ve done a good job of putting them together and getting them to do the basics. But you seem to have forgotten something.’
‘What?’
‘To win a Blood Bowl match, you can’t just murder the other team. You have to pick the ball up and find a way to get it in their End Zone.’
‘Very well Lupoli, I’m listening. What do you suggest?’
‘Well these golems and zombies of yours are good for hitting - and also for getting hit - but the whole shambling thing doesn’t really cut it when you’re in a foot race. You need something with two good hands and some speed.’
Strahad scowled once more. He certainly had nothing in his laboratory that fitted that description. He turned to his assistant.
‘What do the Champions of Death do for, ah, finesse then, Gorp?’
‘Ghouls, master.’
‘Ghouls?’ Strahad looked sceptical. ‘Foul creatures, Lupoli, I don’t think you want anything to do with them. They’re not even real undead. I can’t patch them up if they break.’
Lupoli shook his head as though it was not an issue.
‘But they are very quick, no? Do you perhaps know of any?’
‘Well of course. They’re always hanging around the Tower, looking for scraps of flesh.’
‘Good. Well find yourself the quickest and smartest ones you’ve got.’
Easier said than done, Strahad thought, recalling the sight of the flesh-crazed near-animal things that the Ghouls had become. Still, Lupoli was in full flow and the Necromancer was in no mood to stop him.
‘Now, there’s still something else missing. You need an all-rounder or two. Something with a bit of mobility, something that can maybe hold the ball if it has to, but that still knows how to hit hard. Something that can get after the opposition’s skill players. What we in the trade call a Blitzer.’
Strahad’s brow furrowed, and he thought for a moment or two before a sudden glint appeared in his eye.
‘Coach, I think I know just the thing we’re after.’
‘Did you call me coach?’
Strahad put a hand on the Tilean’s shoulder and looked him in the eye.
‘You’ve spoken more sense in ten minutes than I’ve heard out of anyone for years. You’re hired.’
Lupoli’s face lit up like a flaming village. He grabbed Strahad’s hand and shook it warmly.
‘Thank you! Thank you! You won’t regret this!’
‘Yes, yes, enough of that Lupoli. Grab your things and follow me. We have some player hunting to do.’
*****
The hunt began that evening at the base of Strahad’s tower. Around the fringes of the great structure the foreboding Sylvanian forest stretched, harbouring all manner of wild creatures, and no few evils. That included some handful of ghouls, living a miserable existence, preying on foolish travellers, either killing them by their own hand or devouring the kills of others. Strahad had occasionally used them to dispose of unwanted body parts from his own work, an act he often regretted and had now ceased, for it had led the Ghouls to sniff around the tower in the hope of further morsels. Such was the scene now, as a small gang of the braver ones, slunk about the base of the tower. From a window safely above the creatures, the Necromancer and his new Blood Bowl coach looked down upon them.
‘Vile, pitiful things, aren’t they?’
Lupoli was obviously repulsed, and perhaps a little afraid, but Strahad saw that he nevertheless examined the Ghouls with the appraising eye of an expert.
‘Indeed. I wonder if you might not throw them some flesh though?’
Strahad raised an eyebrow.
‘Are you sure? it won’t be a pleasant sight. They fight like rabid dogs.’
‘Don’t you want to know which one is the strongest?’
Strahad understood, and instructed Gorp to fetch some of the least useful bits of once-living matter from the laboratory.
A few moments later and his assistant returned with some foul-looking and even fouler-smelling pieces of unrecognisable flesh. The Ghouls highly-attuned senses immediately picked up the scent, and a frightening screeching and bickering began amongst the group as they jockeyed for prime position beneath the window. With a nod from Strahad, Gorp tossed the first piece down to them, triggering a frantic burst of activity, the Ghouls leaping for the flesh, one batting it out of the sky and then the rest pouncing upon it.
‘More,’ Lupoli said, and with another approving nod from Strahad, Gorp threw the other pieces.
The new coach watched intently as the Ghouls leapt, scrabbled and fought for the flesh. In mere seconds it has been settled and the meat devoured.
‘That one,’ Lupoli said, gesturing to the largest and most muscular of the Ghouls, ‘And that one,’ pointing to one scrawnier, though perhaps longer of limb.
‘Of course,’ Strahad said, somewhat amused, and uttering a brief incantation, two beams of pale blue energy shot from his hands and, striking the Ghouls, froze them in place as firmly as statues. The other Ghouls screeched in terror and fled from the tower back into the forest.
‘Go and drag them in Gorp,’ Strahad said, ‘and best get a fire on too.’
Some hours later, the now-thawed Ghouls crouched warily and with chattering teeth in front of the fireplace in Strahad’s laboratory, while Strahad and Lupoli examined them closely.
‘Don’t be afraid, I’m not going to hurt you. What are your names?’ Strahad asked.
‘Volkuss,’ answered the big one, his voice hoarse and rasping.
‘Mehlich,’ hissed the other.
‘Well now, how do you fancy playing some Blood Bowl?’
Following a short and silent pause, Strahad judged quickly from the Ghouls’ expressions that they had absolutely no idea what he had asked them. He sighed.
‘I told you this was a bad idea, Lupoli.’
‘Blood Bowl? You know it, I’m sure.’ the Tilean said. He held up a white-ringed leather ball, and tossed it toward them. Mehlich caught it involuntarily. The two Ghouls looked at the ball intently, as though searching their minds for long-forgotten memories.
‘Griff...Oberwald’ Volkuss mouthed slowly.
‘Yes! That’s right.’
‘Griff Oberwald touchdown,’ it said, more confidently, it’s face contorting into a strange and deeply unsettling resemblance of a smile.
Strahad’s sceptical expression persisted. He leaned in and spoke quietly into his coach’s ear.
‘They’re deeply damaged, Lupoli. But if you think you can make use of them, they’re all yours. I’ll leave you to it for a few hours, but call on me before night’s end, I have the next playing candidates lined up.’
*****
The clock had long struck midnight as Strahad picked his way carefully across the desolate, fog-bound Blackthorn moor, Lupoli close at his side. The crescent moon in the cloudless sky above them cast a white light that only enhanced the eerie feeling of the place.
‘You seem anxious, Lupoli,’ the Necromancer said.
Indeed the Tilean glanced nervously about at every noise that emanated from the fog, and trod as though expecting the ground to swallow him at any moment.
‘I have avoided such places since the attack.’
‘Ah, of course. Well you need fear nothing while I accompany you. Anyway,’ he said, pointing to a large, rounded mound of earth before them, ‘We’re here.’
They approached the mound, and Lupoli observed that it had been shaped by hand. At its base a set of narrow and moss-covered stone steps led to a small and equally weathered stone door.
‘Is this a tomb?’
‘I am a Necromancer, Lupoli, what else were you expecting?’
Strahad tentatively pushed the cold, mildewed slab and felt it refuse to budge. He gave it a harder shove and then waved a hand at Lupoli.
‘Stand back.’
As the Tilean anxiously retreated, Strahad took a step back and barked a few short words. With a sudden crack the door flew open as if kicked out from inside. A foul mist rushed out, and even Strahad found himself wincing and covering his face. As it cleared, a passageway into total darkness appeared.
Strahad whispered another spell and a luminescent globe appeared in the Necromancer’s hand. With a brief nod, the globe rose up and bobbed a few feet ahead of the pair, illuminating a dusty and cobweb-strewn passageway heading downwards before them.
Gingerly they advanced, the passageway soon meeting a large circular stone room. In the centre of the room stood two heavy stone sarcophagi. Time-worn armor and weaponry lay strewn around their bases, while the walls hung with tapestries depicting ancient battles and words in some long-forgotten tongue.
‘How old is this place?’ Lupoli ventured in a whisper, ‘And how did you-’
His words were interrupted by a sound that stopped him cold and sent a shiver down his spine. It was the sound of stone scraping against stone, and the sound came as the lids of the sarcophagi moved slowly aside, moved by an unseen force. As the great slabs were pushed from their place, two figures rose from the tombs, heavily-armoured figures, seemingly knights of some long-forgotten empire, and stepped out of their graves.
Lupoli watched these movements unfold while paralysed with fear, but Strahad stepped forward to confront the two with a smile. Lupoli’s amazement was completed as one of the knights lifted its visor, revealing a skull, devoid of all flesh, and empty black eyes. It’s mouth opened to utter words that fell like a boot on stone.
‘Mortal, you dare disturb the tomb of Nefirax and Crax, dark knights of Dis?’
‘I dare, foul spirits! I come to make you an offer.’
The Wights laughed a chilling, otherworldly sound, like the dragging of an iron gate.
‘What can you offer us, mortal? Our eternal existence is sustained only by war, only by the sound of battle, the clash of steel, the smell of blood!’
Strahad turned to Lupoli.
‘Well, what do you think?’
Recovering some of his composure, Lupoli had emerged from Strahad’s shadow and stood facing the Wights at his side.
‘You want blood? Oh we’ll give you blood alright!’