Ernie Toadmoon blew his whistle hard, twice, causing his large green ears to shake each time, and by the end of the second shrill blast most of his players had stopped fighting.
‘Dat’s it lads, training’s over fer da day!’
There were several disappointed groans, as well as muffled sounds of relief from those who were being punched, but within the next few minutes, the players had all trudged off to the mudbaths.
Toadmoon walked across the practice field, which could have passed as a mud bath itself, picking up half-flat footballs and various pieces of training equipment, as well as a few teeth that had been separated from their owners.
At just under five feet tall, Toadmoon was average size for a Goblin; with wiry limbs, a long nose, and sharp fingernails and teeth. He also bore his fair share of scars; a testament to a life in Blood Bowl.
‘Good session Ernie?’ came a voice from behind him, and he turned to see the mildly obese form of team owner Valrag Stinkrunk, accompanied by another Goblin who he did not know. This one was fairly unassuming, apart from a pair of battered eyeglasses, and certainly not built like a player. Toadmoon hoped this wasn’t going to be another one of Stinkrunk’s cousins that he wanted to put on the team.
‘Pretty good, boss. I know we lost a few games lately, but team spirits is high and the lads has been workin’ on their gang-fouls.’
Ernie was smart enough to give what might be considered a political answer when talking to his employer. Expectation levels among Goblin teams were both realistic and mostly easily achievable. Winning was optional, and not expected. Delivering rule-breaking mayhem and spectacular violence on the field, especially against the bigger and poncier races, was absolutely essential and the real test of a good Goblin coach.
‘Good to ‘ear it. Well, you might be wundrin who this smart looking fellow is.’
Toadmoon wasn’t sure he would have used the word smart, but it was more appropriate than, for example, ‘athletic’.
‘This is Gazbag, e’s our new ‘Ead of Innervations.’
‘Invayshuns? Who we invading?’
‘Nah, Inner vayshuns, Ernie, ideas. Great ideas! He’s a vishunary!’
Gazbag shuffled slightly uncomfortably, apparently uncomfortable with the level of expectation Stinkrunk was setting.
‘And e’s gonna help you come up with even more birilliunt ideas for the team.’
Ernie was nonplussed.
‘Alright then, gimme one of your ideas.’
‘You tell him one, Stinkrunk’, said, proudly and expectantly.
Gazbag narrowed his eyes and wracked his brain for a moment, and then said two words.
‘Rocket Squigs’
Ernie furrowed his brow as the idea swirled in his thoughts. The mayhem and violence potential certainly did seem high.
‘Alright, that’s pretty good, I’ll give you dat.’
Stinkrunk clapped Gazbag on the back and smiled broadly. ‘See I told you, e’s a genieyus. I’ll leave you two to it.’
Over the next few days, Ernie came to hear many more of Gazbag’s ideas, and though the majority of them fell in the realms of absolute insanity, he had to admit there were a few good ones in there too. Moreover, Ernie was an open-minded Goblin, and he admired the fact that Gazbag was not encumbered by anything resembling convention (or practicality, or scientific knowledge, or history, or safety) in his thinking.
After much discussion, the two settled on what would be Gazbag’s first project: improving the Doom Diver.
The Doom Diver was a unique position on the team, a Goblin who was fitted with a special apparatus that would enable them to glide in a more controlled manner when they were thrown by one of the team Trolls.
The Trolls were what passed for muscle in the side, though unfortunately their least developed muscle, the brain, could be something of a hindrance to their actual effectiveness, especially when dominated more often by their most developed muscles (the stomach).
But in theory at least, the Troll-Doom Diver connection had the potential to score spectacular and unexpected Touchdowns against even the toughest opponents, who were completely unable to stop the Diver sailing over their heads and into the endzone.
In practice, it was one of the most dangerous positions on the team (which, given that several of the others involved high explosives or dubiously repurposed agricultural machinery, was really saying something), whether because of the obvious pitfalls in trying to play Blood Bowl while fitted with a cumbersome harness that provided no protection whatsoever, or because of the obvious dangers of attempting to circumvent the effects of gravity, or simply because of the necessity of standing very close to a Troll and expecting it to do what you want (and not step on you or eat you).
The fact was that the team had gone through a lot more Doom Divers than they had seen Touchdowns scored by them, and if Gazbag really was capable of turning a great idea into a practical solution, Toadmoon thought that seemed like a good place to start.
***
A week later, Toadmoon met Gazbag in his hovel to discuss his progress. Toadmoon could not fail to be impressed by the amount of plans, diagrams, and notes that covered the table. And the rest of the hovel was littered with pieces of machinery, tools, herbs, potions, and Grom knew what else.
‘Alrite, Coach, I’ve done my anallysiss on all the different aspecks of the problem, and I’ve come up with something for all of dem. So, problem number one, gettin the Troll’s attenshun.’
This was certainly a problem. The history of big guys in Blood Bowl was a mixed bag of the sublime and the utterly disastrous. And amongst the many big guys who had entered the field, Trolls were generally considered to be the stupidest. Teams who fielded vicious creatures like Minoaturs generally only had to point them in the direction of the other team and let nature take its course. Trolls, meanwhile, tended to require constant direction and cajoling from their Goblin team-mates to get them to focus on the plan at hand. This was a constant frustration for a race as brilliant and cunning as Goblins.
‘Go on then.’
Gazbag did not answer, but merely produced a small jar from behind his back, and unscrewed the lid. Almost instantly, an alluring odour filled the room.
‘Wait a minute, what is that?’
‘Alligator musk’
‘Wooaar, dat’s nice.’
Gazbag smiled and pointed as if to say ‘exactly’.
‘Reminds me of my college sweet’art.’
Gazbag ignored this dangerous line of conversation and proceeded with his explanation.
‘Now all we need to do is give this to our Diver, and when he needs to get a Troll’s attenshun he waves this under his snozzle and dat Troll will be all eyes, or nose, or…well you gets me.’
Toadmoon clapped the inventor on the shoulder warmly.
‘Alrite, we’ll give dis a go in trainin tomorrow.’
The team’s current Doom Diver was a confident Goblin by the name of Flashnut. Whatever reckless confidence had inspired him to take up one of the most dangerous positions in Blood Bowl had been emboldened by its failure to kill him. He eagerly absorbed Ernie and Gazbag’s explanation of the benefits of their new ‘innervashun’. Anything that meant he would be launched into the air more often was great by him.
As practice commenced for the day, Toadmoon had the team setup in one of their frequently-practiced ‘Diver-chuck’ formations. Flashnut received the ball from a team-mate, sidled up to Bilgeguts the Troll, and removed the stopper from the vial of Gator Musk. The effect was almost instantaneous (nothing happens that quickly in a Troll’s brain). Bilgeguts’ nose sniffed the air and soon homed in on the source of the scent below him.
In the same moment, the realisation dawned upon Flashnut, and the onlooking Toadmoon and Gazbag, that the delicious smell had triggered the Troll’s attention in entirely the wrong way.
Flashnut quickly tried to throw the vial away, but without its stopper succeeded only in dousing himself with it. Bilgeguts wasted no time in grabbing the unfortunate Diver in his hand and dangling it by a leg, dropped the Goblin whole into his mouth. A few sickening noises later and all that remained of Flashnut was a loud belch.
Toadmoon blew his whistle for practice to stop, and shook his head sadly on the sideline.
'I fink the problem is, Gazbag, that you've made that smell too allurin.’
Gazbag stroked his chin thoughtfully.
‘So you’re saying it should be something kind of smelly, but not in a good way.’
‘Yeah. And maybe not in a bad way either, or they’z likely to do somethin’ evun more regruttable.’
Gazbag nodded sagely.
‘Alright, we’ll get back to that one. Anyway, I got a new idea to try out too and it’s a millyun times better than that one.’
‘I’m all earz, Gazbag.’
‘Right, the Diver’s harness. See, it’s a pain runnin round with all that gear on, so I’s come up with something much more flexible.’
He pulled a piece of fresh parchment from his belt. A large geometric shape sat prominently at its centre, with a humanoid figure hanging below.
Toadmoon turned his head from side to side, trying to understand what he was looking at.
‘It’s a kite! It’s like a hunnered times liter than dose wings.’
‘That’ll never lift a Goblin, Gazbag.’
‘Wait til you seez it. It folds out when your boy deploys it. Real big.’
Later that day, after a volunteer to take on the role of Doom Diver had been found (by drawing straws) Gazbag produced his kite prototype and gave the slightly less enthusiastic figure of Baz Badguts a brief overview of how it worked. A couple of tests on the training ground revealed, remarkably, that it was indeed workable and somewhat practical. The whole squad gasped in admiration as Badguts floated above their heads, and to Gazbag and Ernie’s amazement he showed remarkable aptitude in exercising control over the Kite’s direction.
‘Alright Gazbag, we’ll give this one a try on the weekend. We’re playin sum poncy Elves, I reckon dis’ll give em the shock of their long lives.’
***
It was a bright, clear day, with a mild breeze that ruffled the pennants fluttering from the Royal Aldium stadium as the teams jogged out onto the pitch. Not Goblin weather at all, Toadmoon thought, but perfect weather for kite-flying! Their opponents were a High Elf touring side, and Toadmoon’s natural hatred for their infuriating height, gleaming armour, and smug expressions was tempered by his anticipation of the looks on their faces when his side deployed their secret weapon.
The first half went by rather quickly, the Elves being content to sling the ball around while dodging away from the Goblins’ attempts to drag them to the floor and give them a kicking. As the clock started to wind toward the end of the half, the Elven Catchers suddenly burst forward, dashing through the Goblin lines with the same ease that a Dragon might soar through the mountaintops, and then their Thrower launched a high perfect spiral to meet one of them in the Goblin endzone. The crowd roared, and the referee whistled the teams to ready for a final kick-off, with barely a minute left on the clock before the half.
Toadmoon gathered his team in the dugout.
‘Rite lads, this is it. Them stoopid Elves has left us just enuff time to execute our kite attack. Everybody set up for the throw; Baz, get the kite ready, and keep it out of eyesight til the kick-off.’
With the teams setup once more, the whistle blew and the Elves kicked the ball high into the air. A Deep-lying Goblin ran under the ball and deftly caught it, then raced toward the front lines where Badguts and the Troll awaited. The Elves seemed oblivious to the threat, simply hanging back and waiting for the clock to run down.
Watching from the dugout, Toadmoon shouted at Bilgeguts.
‘Get ready to chuck!’
The Troll reacted at a glacial pace but somehow seemed to have got the message, lowering an open hand for Badguts to climb on. Badguts, for his part, neatly received the ball from his team-mate and clambered into the Troll’s outstretched hand.
‘Now! Deploy the kite!’ Gazbag shouted. He winced as Badguts tucked the ball into his jersey and struggled with the crude and frail kite, knowing that any clumsy move could break the frame or tear the material. In the next instant Bilgeguts had hefted the Goblin forward with all his might. The flailing Goblin figure suddenly unfurled the Kite into its full size, and with all the elegance of a soaring Eagle, was borne aloft high above the pitch.
Gazbag jumped for joy.
‘Yes! Dat's it! E's done it! We've done it!’
For a brief few moments the Goblin sailed with the greatest of ease over the heads of the Elven players. The faces of players and fans alike turned to astonishment as they witnessed one of the singular most graceful moments of Goblinoid kind. Toadmoon was fairly astonished himself. He couldn’t believe his team had worked together to pull it off.
But, in the next instant, the sky turned dark, clouds gathering with unnatural suddenness, heavy and black as an impending thunderstorm. A palpable tension rose in the air, hair standing on arms and even heads. Gazbag looked over at the Elven sideline, and saw, to his horror, a Coach in the midst of a sorcerous incantation, his eyes fixed upon Badguts.
‘Oh no. Oh no! Baz! Let go of the kite! Let go!’
Time seemed to stand still as the bolt of lightning arced down from the clouds and connected with the kite. The flash that followed was blinding; the whole stadium lit up as if by a flare, every face white. And then there was a boom so close and so terrifying that the fans, players and coaches alike all fell to their knees and covered their heads in terror at the overhwelming power of nature. A heartbeat later the clouds had cleared as quickly as they had gathered, but as all eyes returned to the field, of Badguts nothing remained but a small pile of ashes. The ball landed next to the remains a moment later and bounced gently into the hands of an Elven Thrower.
Toadmoon shook his head sadly.
‘Bloody Elves.’
***
The next week, Gazbag found Toadmoon on the training ground once more. Despite their setbacks, the coach remained happy to see the ‘Ead of Innervashuns; his various plans seemed to have galvanised a greater teamwork between the squad, and while the lightning bolt had not been good for Baz Badguts, it had been great for Cabalvision ratings, which kept Stinkrunk happy.
‘Alrite Ernie, well, I think I’ve bin thinkin too small. D’you member what I first said to you when we met?’
Toadmoon had taken a few bumps on the head as a player, so memory wasn’t necessarily his forte; but some phrases did tend to stick in the mind.
‘Rocket Squigs.’
‘Zackly. It’s time to turn this up a notch.’
He reached into a bag slung over his back and withdrew from it a red-skinned, mad-eyed, fanged creature, about half the size of a football, and dangled it by its tail in front of Toadmoon while it tried unsuccessfully to maneuver its body to bite him.
‘Dis here is a Bile Squig. Normally wouldn’t touch one of these in a zillion zoggin years, cos they blast a nasty stream of poisonous juices at ya. Thing is, those same juices is very flammable. All you need to do is-’
And so saying he swung the creature up toward him while simultaneously sparking a flint lighter with his other hand. The creature, finally sensing its chance for revenge puffed up its cheeks and attempted to unleash its bile. Gazbag swiftly directed it at the sparking stones and suddenly there was an immense roar, and the Squig, and Gazbag, who was still holding it, were blasted, much like a rocket, in the opposite direction. The pair of them flew some thirty paces before skidding along the turf, the squig bouncing up and running away as fast as its tiny legs would take it.
Toadmoon ran over to the recumbent Gazbag, who grinned triumphantly back at him.
‘See?’
‘Blimmin hell!
‘These Squigs is multy-porpoise, Ernie. Your lads can use ‘em to blast around the pitch, or blast ‘em at de uvver team!’
Toadmoon had to hand it to the inventor, his inventions really lived up their concepts.
‘Alrite, Gazbag, dis week we’ve got some nasty Chaos lot turning up ‘ere, maybe dis’ll give us the edge on ‘em. But how many of those Squigs ‘av you got?’
‘Err, yeah I could do with some ‘elp there, coach.’
That week, the team put out a call to fans to ask them to round up any Bile Squigs they could find and bring them to Gazbag’s hovel. For enthusiasm and recklessness it is hard to top the Goblin supporters, and so, come match day, Gazbag arrived triumphantly at the stadium with a large sack in hand.
He put his finger to his lips and opened the sack carefully to reveal several smaller bags, each softly moving with a sleeping Bile Squig. ‘Once they see the light dey’ll be angry and start going off, so we’ll rashun ‘em out, and tell your lads to be careful alright?’
Gazbag placed the sack gently on a bench in the dugout, and as the stadium filled with fans, Toadmoon gathered the team to explain how they would use the Squigs. While these detailed instructions were being passed on, Bilgeguts the Troll had wandered to the bench, attracted by the smell and movement within. As Toadmoon turned to the bench to indicate to the team where the Squigs were being kept, they were met by the sight of Bilgeguts lifting the sack and opening it.
Gazbag barely had time to shout a warning before an angry Squig emerged from its slumber and bit Bilgeguts on the nose. The Troll roared and angrily clutched at the Squig, which blasted a stream of poisonous fluid into its eyes. Bilgeguts staggered backward, still clutching the sack, and the rest of the team screamed in terror and fled in all directions as a series of angry squeaks began to emanate from within.
The Troll whirled in confusion, rubbing its eyes, and then as another blast rent a hole in the sack and struck it on the leg, it hurled the bag away in rage. Toadmoon rushed out of the dugout and watched aghast, as the bag full of Squigs soared through the sky and into the viewing box of Valrag Stinkrunk and his honoured Goblin merchant guests, just as they were lighting a set of special swampleaf cigars. There was a brief pause as Stinkrunk came face to face with a gaggle of angry Bile Squigs, and then the explosions started.
Those who survived gave accounts of a never-ending fire and a ceaseless thunder. Investigators later determined that the Bile squigs’ own potent explosive chemicals had combined with the ambient marsh gases trapped within the stadium to produce an unprecedented chain reaction. The blasts were so powerful and sustained that Imperial and Dwarf regiments were dispatched from their respective nations to investigate, assuming that some attack was imminent. What they found instead was a vast area of smoking ruin and ash, and the remains of several hundred Blood Bowl fans, who had at least gone out in the most spectacular pyrotechnic display the swamp had ever seen.
Of Valrag Stinkrunk nothing recognisable was ever found. His nephew Wazrag became the new owner of the team, and despite his excitement at his unexpected elevation to the world of sports ownership, he recognised some backroom changes were in order.
***
The next game day, Gazbag once again stood on the Gobln sideline. This time though, his clipboard and lab coat had been replaced by a tray of drinks and an ill-fitting shirt that read ‘Head of Refreshmunt’. His face bore an expression that suggested he recognised his new role was not a promotion. He watched the action on the field sadly as the team’s newest Doom Diver, without any of Gazbag’s great ideas, clutched the ball and made ready to be thrown to glory. Ernie Toadmoon, his skin still a little blackened from the Squig Incident, wandered past and clapped the dejected Goblin on the back.
‘Don’t get too down, Gazbag. Look, honestly, I thought some of your ideyuz were pretty gud. We just have to accept dat you can't improve on perfection.’
As they spoke, the Troll hefted the Diver in its huge hands and attempted to launch it forwards. Some combination of the Troll’s clumsy hands and the Doom Diver’s nervous movements saw the player half-thrown and half-fall, dropping almost unerringly onto the blade of a Looney’s chainsaw that was being enthusiastically revved up beside it. Gazbag and Toadmoon covered their eyes but their ears told them all they needed to know about what happened next. The crowd roared in a highly-satisfied mixture of disgust and amusement.
Ernie turned to Gazbag, wiping a small piece of shredded Goblin from his cheek.
‘D’yknow, maybe we've been thinking about this wrong. What we really need…is a better Troll.’
Gazbag’s eyes widened, and a faraway look came into his eyes. His mind whirled with possibilities. He raised a finger as though he had caught inspiration by the throat.
‘I’m on it coach!’ he said, and flinging his tray of drinks into the air, raced off to his lab, a broad grin on his face.