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  Da Bank Job – Andy Hall

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  A Black Library Publication

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  Da Bank Job

  Andy Hall

  The ball shot from the orc’s arm as if fired from a cannon. It went spiralling high through the air in a perfect arc. By Nuffle’s own definition, the throw was the epitome of a long bomb. The fans in the packed, ramshackle stadium – a noxious mix of dwarfs and greenskins – were silenced for the first time in what had been a brutal game thus far. The orc blitzer, wearing the captain’s nose ring, looked on in momentary admiration as the ball went flying over the crowd, over the floodlights, over the stadium’s high walls, and out of sight. He then looked at the thrower, stood next to him, and at the opponent’s end zone… three yards away.

  ‘You were meant to ’and it off, you stoopid, squig-sucking git.’

  ‘Sorry, boss, it’s just dat all season you’ve be on at me to throw a long ’un and I finally ’ad a chance.’

  Before the captain could swear at his inept thrower again, the pair were set upon by the dwarf defence – piled into by eight bearded psychopaths, all eager to dig their elbows into the orcs’ squashy bits. And then everything froze, as if a pause button had been pressed – most likely because it had.

  ‘There you go, Bob,’ snickered Jim Johnson to his fellow commentator, as the view switched from the frozen orc and dwarf scrum to an in-studio shot of a small, spectacle-wearing vampire with a rictus grin. ‘As voted by CabalVision HD’s viewers, that is last season’s most hilarious play!’ Large CabalVision logos were revolving behind the studio sports desk at which the vampire presenter was sitting. Looming next to him was his fellow pundit, a brutal-looking ogre with scars that could only have been garnered off a Blood Bowl field.

  ‘The irony is, Jim, it was a good pass… if the thrower had been standing two hundred yards downfield of ’is target, instead of next to ’im! But then dat’s what we’ve come to expect from Brobrag’s Big ’Uns!’

  ‘True, Bob, they may have only formed at the start of the season, but they’re quickly gaining a dire reputation. Err, where you going, Bob?’

  ‘Dat’s it, Jim. Season’s done, I’m off on me jollies. See you in three months!’

  ‘Right… Okay… well, as Bob leaves let’s have another look at that humiliating clip of Brobrag’s Big ’Uns. I bet their backer wasn’t too pleased–’

  The picture stopped suddenly as the ogre landlord smacked the large crystal ball positioned at the end of the bar, the vision within shaking for a second and then switching channel to the WOLF Network’s post-season offerings. The nose-ringed orc breathed a sigh of relief and cautiously peered about as he supped his grog, wondering if the other ‘patrons’ in the heaving bar had recognised him from the footage. It was a big ask, as The Krafty Snotling was a hotspot for Blood Bowl players, their agents and autograph-hunting fans. The walls were adorned with trophies, MVPs, pennants, and many pictures of the ogre landlord – himself an ex-coach – posing with star players, past and present. The orc blitzer wasn’t happy; this was the last place he wanted to be after the previous season, but those who wanted to meet him had insisted. So he sat in a corner booth, as far away from the bar as possible, with a picture above him of the smirking landlord giving a large thumbs up next to Varag Ghoul-Chewer. It was a nice shot, although the imprisoned daemon inside the CAMRA must have been running low on red pigment as the blood spatter on Ghoul-Chewer’s loin-cloth looked a little too orange.

  Luckily for the orc, no one seemed interested in him. The bar was propped up by some more orcs, and two large tables of humies glared at each other – one group wearing Reavers colours, the other clearly Marauders fans. A ruck was mere rounds away, the orc reckoned. Sat on his own, a few tables away, was a lone, robed humie; he had a frenzied air to him. His hand shook as he raised it to take a drink and occasionally he’d shout and grumble. In the far corner, a huddle of dwarfs were also looking about the place, and one of the stunty gits caught Brobrag’s eye. They stared at each other across the bar, flinging eye-daggers. The orc had seen his like before – that one had grudge-fever, and if Brobrag didn’t look out he’d be the target of the ‘vengeance’.

  ‘Mr Brobrag is it? Captain and owner of the Big ’Uns?’

  The orc looked away from the dwarf – which, Brobrag knew, the bearded git would take as some minor victory – and saw two beings standing before his booth. One was a tall, pale humie in a scruffy, ill-fitting suit – the type Brobrag had seen moneyed agents and CabalVision executives wear. The other was a goblin, wearing similar attire and looking even more dishevelled in his clobber.

  ‘Dis is Mr Ger, and I’m Mr Bil,’ said the goblin. ‘Glad ya came. Got a drink I see, get yer another?’

  Before Brobrag could even grunt in acknowledgement the pair had sat down. Now the orc’s table was attracting more eyes than just the grudge-loving dwarf. He waved away the offer of another grog. The goblin caught the eye of a tavern wench dressed in a Darkside Cowboys cheerleader kit and ordered a drink for himself and his partner.

  ‘So tell me,’ began Mr Ger, ‘how’s your boss’s pet squig?’

  ‘Yoo know well enuff, humie,’ growled Brobrag. ‘It was in last week’s Spike! magazine.’

  ‘Remind me.’

  ‘Leg-cruncha ate da critter. Da boss wasn’t ’appy about dat. Bloody troll vomited da squig right back up. Poor fing was partly digested. ’ad to get Fingurs to put the blighter out of its misery.’

  ‘It’s been a tough first season, ain’t it?’ said the goblin with an evil glint in his eye. ‘Yoo retire from raidin’, start a Blood Bowl team with yer krew, get fundin’ from yer warboss and promise ’im he’ll get rich from all yer winnins. Instead, yer didn’t win a single match, yer lost all the boss’s teef and yer troll playa eats yer backer’s fave squig.’

  ‘It could’ve been worse,’ ventured Brobrag.

  ‘Well, you could be dead, I suppose,’ answered Mr Ger.

  ‘Yoo’ve dragged me ’ere just to gloat? Sod that, I’m off.’ Brobrag began to rise.

  ‘Let’s not be hasty, we simply wondered how desperate you are. We have a proposal.’

  Suddenly, the CabalVision ball sounded louder, as these things always did when the programming cut to a commercial break.

  ‘Have you got the balls to challenge the Reikland Reavers? Blood Bowl balls that is!’ This announcement was greeted with a cheer from the table of Reavers’ fans. ‘Can’t wait for the start of next season? The Reikland Invitational is now accepting all-comers. Bring your team to the world-famous Altdorf Oldbowl stadium and play against other hopefuls – the winner then faces the Reikland Reavers! Beat them and take all the gate! Get noticed! Get more fans! C’mon, what else you going to do in the off-season? Raid and pillage? Boring! Play more Blood Bowl instead!’ The next advert was for Khorne-flakes – turns the milk all bloody! – and the volume seemed to calm down. The customers returned to their usual chatter.

  ‘Fancy it?’ asked Mr Bil.

  ‘Wot?’

  ‘The Invitational. Your boys win that thing, you’d be out of all that bother. Back on good terms with the warboss, the gate from a full stadium in your treasury and you’ll have sponsors across the Old World all desperate to sign you up.’

  ‘Dat’s no tourney, dat’s a stitch-up. Somefing the Reavers pull every off-season to keep da coffers flowin’ and their ’ome stadium full. Every git on da circuit knows dat. I may be an orc, but I ain’t dat thick.’

  The inn’s front door smashed open, sending an unfortunate halfling – who had been heading for the exit – flying across
the tap room. A black orc filled the portal. A seven-foot slab of green muscle, with a ripped left ear. He scowled at the patrons, who all nervously looked back at him. On spotting Brobrag’s group, the black orc made his way across, scattering the odd chair and smaller folk not quick enough to get out of his plodding way.

  Mr Bil looked up at the towering orc as his shadow loomed over the booth.

  ‘Fingurs, ain’t it? Brobrag’s second-in-command, and one of the only scorers in the team?’

  Brobrag gestured for his black orc blocker to sit. Fingurs grabbed a small stool from the nearby empty table and plonked himself down.

  ‘Wot I miss?’

  ‘These two geezers reckon we should play in the Reikland Invitational,’ said Brobrag. ‘Fink we can win it, ha!’

  ‘We could!’ said Fingurs. ‘Dey’re only humies. Kill enuff of ’em, and den dere’s no one ta stop yoo scorin’.’

  ‘Erm… Let’s not get ahead of ourselves…’ interjected the only human at the table. ‘The Reavers are one of the best teams in the world. Your captain is right, Brobrag’s Big ’Uns don’t stand much of a chance.’

  While Brobrag didn’t give a snotling’s flea what the humie was saying – as it was annoyingly true – Fingurs growled from the back of his throat, the same growl he gave on the line of scrimmage. His ham-sized fist began to rise.

  ‘However,’ squeaked the goblin urgently, ‘yoo lot playin’ does present us with... an opportunity.’

  Brobrag didn’t like the sound of this, but he forced Fingurs to lower his fist all the same.

  ‘Have you been introduced to your new team wizard yet?’ asked Mr Ger.

  ‘We ain’t got no wizard!’ said Fingurs.

  ‘Oh, you have now.’ As one, Ger and Bil turned to face the robed humie who sat two tables away. The man was still arguing with himself, and right then proceeded to smack the heavy wooden table with his head. Hard.

  The orc captain frowned. He hated wizards and shamans; he hadn’t got time for that magicky-nonsense.

  ‘Wot kind of opportunity?’ he asked.

  ‘The best kind – one that makes you rich,’ said Mr Ger with a wide smile.

  It was match day. Brobrag looked at his team as they gathered in the visitors’ locker room of the Oldbowl. They were all present – his mob of below-average line-orcs, the troll, Leg-cruncha, the gobbo twins known as the Chukka Brothers, Grappa, the thrower whose only ever decent pass was now CabalVision’s favourite blooper, and finally, Fingurs the black orc. Standing slightly away from the team were the new ‘coaching staff’ supplied by Mr Ger and Mr Bil, and Chanzeemitt, the strangely paranoid and shouty wizard, also recommended by the so-called ‘fixers’. Although, Brobrag wasn’t sure he’d trust those two near anything broken enough it needed them to fix it. And yet, here he was! The locker room crowd looked on expectantly at the orc. He’d already explained the plan twice but knew what was coming when Fingurs opened his gob.

  ‘So, why am I not playing in da game, boss?’

  ‘I told ya, yer wiv dis krew,’ said Brobrag gesturing to the orc coaching staff who had been ‘recruited’ just before the tournament. As orcs went, the four were as dodgy as they come. One had a broken tooth, one was missing an eye and the other two looked especially murderous, even when kitted out with cap, sponge and towel – the standard issue gear of any field-side assistant coach. ‘Yer goin’ into the vault wiv ’em, cos I don’t trust dese orcs none – no offence. They’re supplied by that pair of gits, so I need you to make sure we don’t get stitched up! Dat’s why yer in charge of ’em.’

  ‘Okay, so it’z a bank job?’ asked Fingurs, who still looked confused.

  ‘Maybe I could explain, captain?’ said the wizard, who then gave an involuntary yelp.

  Brobrag gestured for the humie to go on.

  ‘You, my fine green-skinned friend, will lead this group of err… experts… into the vault of the Imperial Treasury that’s just across the road from this stadium. I will be providing the means of ingress. In the visitors’ dugout is a stable portal – an escape route for the treasury staff and clients should they come under attack, I expect – I will open it with my magic and transport you directly inside the vault. HAAHAA!’

  Brobrag flinched at the maniacal laugh the wizard used to punctuate his speech – stoopid loony humie, that’s what you get for meddling with magic.

  ‘Once inside, yoo grab all da loot yoo can and den leg it back out,’ explained the captain. ‘Me and da rest of the lads are gonna be playin’ in da match. The longer we make the game last, the more time yoo ’ave in the vault to collect da shiny stuff. Right, let’s get out dere!’

  The team cheered, although most clearly didn’t know why, and headed to the field.

  Brobrag strode purposely through the player tunnel that led to the AstralTurf® pitch. One of the Chukka Brothers ran up beside him.

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘Wot,’ growled Brobrag.

  ‘I’m confused. Who we playin’? We’re not fightin’ da Reavers are we? Cos we don’t stand a chance against them, boss.’

  ‘I kno! We ain’t playin’ da Reavers. Dey don’t play until da challenger is established. All da teams that come, fight amongst demselves, and the best one plays against da Reavers. It’s da “official” challengers dat get all da coverage on CabalVision. Da match scheduler’s been bribed, ’e’s putting us against some halfling team… Even we should manage against dem. We need to string it out though, so da krew gets maximum time in da vault.’

  Brobrag’s team filed out into the massive stadium. The Oldbowl was a glorious temple to violence and sport. The orcs looked about, taken in by the atmosphere, the high stadium walls, the gloriously turfed pitch dotted with brown and crimson stains. And the packed crowds screaming and shouting from the stands. The Big ’Uns had never played at a venue like this before. Grappa and a few of the line-orcs started waving their arms as they strode onto the field, fully embracing the crowd’s jeering racket.

  ‘And here are Brobrag’s Big ’Uns!’ shouted the unmistakable voice of Jim Johnson over the stadium’s ‘state of the arcane’ speaker network. Brobrag’s gut shifted as it always did when he felt something bad was happening. The game was against the Merrywald Chums, a bunch of halfling farmhands. Such a match shouldn’t be drawing a crowd like this, let alone the attention of CabalVision’s presenters…

  ‘Boss…’ said the goblin who hadn’t left his side since the tunnel. ‘The fans – dey’re all wearin’ Reavers’ colours.’

  The reverb sped around the stadium, as Jim continued.

  ‘The challengers are on the field, but here comes the team you’ve all come to see, eighteen-time Chaos Cup winners, voted best team of all time by Spike! magazine… the Reikland Reavers!’

  The crowd broke into thunderous applause. In the stands just above the visitors’ dugout, Brobrag spied Messrs Ger and Bil. The gobbo was wearing a sheepish grin; the humie met the orc captain’s gaze and gave a ‘wotcha gonna do’ shrug of his shoulders.

  ‘Zoggin ’ell!’ murmured Brobrag.

  The Reavers ran through the player tunnel and onto the field in a blaze of glory, and the fans went wild. While they basked in their welcome at the centre of the field, Brobrag corralled his team towards the visitors’ dugout and sought out the nearest official. An elf in tailored zebra fur stood nonchalantly at the side of the pitch, twirling his whistle about on its twine.

  ‘Wot in Nuffle’s ball sack is goin’ on?’ demanded Brobrag.

  ‘Problem?’ snapped the elf.

  ‘We’re meant to be playin’ halflings, not the Reikland zoggin’ Reavers!’

  ‘Yeah, about that, seemed the schedules got shifted,’ the official said with a sly smile. ‘The Merrywald Chums played a Chaos team called the Flesh Hounds this morning. I think they lasted all of two downs before they were slaughtered to a soul. The Flesh Hounds went
on a killing spree afterwards, leaving you lot to face the Reavers – the final was brought forward and everything, someone paid a lot to make that happen. Didn’t anyone tell you?’ he sneered.

  Brobrag had never liked elves, but this long-eared git had quickly risen to the top of his hate list. He headed back to his dugout. The players looked expectantly at the captain.

  ‘Some gits want us to play da Reavers. So sod it, let’s do it!’

  Chanzeemitt cleared his throat. ‘May I remind you the plan was that you fought against a weak team as a diversion and to maximise the vault-group’s time in the treasury. If your team is all in the “dead and injured box” within ten minutes then we are… to use language your kind understands… screwed.’

  ‘Can yoo still open da portal or not?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Then get to it. Right ladz, it’s our biggest game yet. We ain’t just a diversion! We’re Blood Bowl players, let’z bloody well play!’ The team cheered and, led by Brobrag, ran onto the field.

  Deep in the dugout, at the far end, away from the eyes of fans, the team wizard whispered in a language that made Fingurs shiver. The end wall shimmered and a black portal appeared where the cinder blocks had been moments before. Chanzeemitt let out a braying laugh but Fingurs was unsure if that was part of the spell or just one of the mage’s strange tics.

  ‘Go,’ hissed Chanzeemitt. The black orc ran through the portal, closely followed by the four assistant coaches. Instead of sponges and buckets they now carried sacks and jemmies. As the last of the orcs from the vault-group disappeared, the elven ref’s whistle was blown – the game had started.

  The Reavers hit hard for humies. They slammed into the Big ’Uns’ front line, which was sorely lacking their black orc blocker. Brobrag was in the middle of the defence, on the line of scrimmage, and found himself face to face with the Reavers’ captain.

  ‘And the two captains meet!’ shouted an excited Jim Johnson over the stadium’s arcane sound system. ‘Griff Oberwald is a NAF hall of famer, one of the highest scorers in the sport. Brobrag… Well you can’t really compare the two, can you?’