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  Doc Morgrim’s Vow – Josh Reynolds

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  Doc Morgrim’s Vow

  Josh Reynolds

  ‘This is a mistake,’ Doc Morgrim growled. The thickset dwarf stood braced against the rail of the gondola, staring out of the window, listening to the omnipresent cacophony of creaks and groans. The Makaisson and Sons airship echoed constantly with the stress of travel through northern skies, and its crew were ever in motion, repairing this, tightening that, and muttering prayers to Grungni, Valaya, and whoever else might be listening.

  Morgrim flinched with every squeak and squeal. He was of the opinion that if the venerable ancestors had wanted dwarfs to fly, they’d have given them golden wings and instruction manuals. Others didn’t agree, as the airship proved. Makaisson and Sons ran three flights a week from Praag to Sjoktraken, and once a month to the Dragon’s Hold. Airships were the latest thing and said to be safer than sea travel. Fewer dragons, at any rate.

  ‘No, this is an opportunity,’ replied Morgrim’s companion. Tyros Bundt was big for a human, mostly width-wise. The coach of the number-four-ranked Middenplatz Manglers was a former blitzer, one of the best Nuffle had ever seen fit to bless, and starting to run to fat, as the old muscles went flat from lack of use. Even so, he was still more than capable of prying an opponent’s skull open like a bottle of Bloodweiser.

  ‘It can be both,’ Morgrim said. In contrast to Bundt, Morgrim was as hard as slate. Beneath the greasy smock he habitually wore in his capacity as team sawbones, his broad form was covered in tattoos and scars. His hair and beard had been stiffened with bear fat and dyed in Manglers’ colours, giving him the look of someone who’d lost a fight with a feral rainbow. Despite his appearance, he was one of the best physicians in the league.

  ‘Stop ruining this. I’m happy. Why won’t you let me be happy?’

  ‘I’m a dwarf. We are not at home to happy.’ Morgrim thumped a fist against the side of the cupola and stared down at the white wasteland visible below. Norsca. Why did it have to be Norsca? The high, snow-capped crags below reached up towards the underside of the airship like the claws of some vast beast. Somehow, it looked worse from the air.

  Morgrim had always hated Norsca. It wasn’t the cold, so much as everything that went with it. Also, the cold. He’d sworn never to set foot in these wild lands again, but Bundt had insisted. And Morgrim had taken an oath, on the field of battle, to always stand by his teammate. To stand by the manling who’d saved his unworthy life. ‘Never should have played in that game,’ he muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is a mistake.’

  ‘You already said that.’

  ‘And I intend to keep saying it until you listen.’ Morgrim turned from the window. ‘The Tournament of a Hundred Woes is a meat grinder. It’s chewed up and spat out more teams than I can name.’

  ‘Then it’s due an upset.’

  ‘I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.’ Somehow, the Manglers had been invited to the tournament. It might have been their win in the Doom Bowl, or maybe Bundt had put out feelers. Regardless, there weren’t many teams interested in travelling that far north, and the ones who were often went for one of the better known tournaments – the Manticore Bowl, the Troll Country Classic – rather than trekking into the mountains to take part in a tournament known only to a few dedicated enthusiasts. The Dragon’s Hold Drakeslayers were probably desperate for opponents. Which only made them more dangerous. And there were other perils than those to be found on the playing field.

  Despite his misgivings, Morgrim had agreed to go. He still wasn’t entirely sure why. Perhaps some part of him missed his home town. Also, without his skills, he had no doubt the Manglers would return in more pieces than they’d left in. And there was no denying that it’d be a coup to pull off. Like the Chaos Cup or Mork’s Thumb, the Angry Dragon Cup was a legendary artefact in Blood Bowl circles. The sort of trophy spoken of in whispers.

  ‘I didn’t have to talk you into anything. Deny it all you like, but you’ve been wanting to come back to Norsca for ages. And how better to do it, but as a champion?’ Bundt flung out a hand. ‘Feel that, Doc? Winds of change!’

  ‘Yes. That’s why the hull is studded with protective runes.’ Morgrim frowned. ‘The Dragon’s Hold is dangerous. They play for keeps up here. There’s a reason the Angry Dragon Cup has never gone south.’ The dwarfs of the Dragon’s Hold were staunch traditionalists. It would be a cold day in Grungni’s forge before they surrendered any of their treasures, especially that cup.

  ‘Like I said, it’s due a change, then,’ Bundt said, stubbornly. ‘Besides, we’ve got a secret weapon. Isn’t that right, Fiducci?’

  The black-clad shape froze in its attempt to creep past them, towards the galley. Franco Fiducci was a Tilean by birth, a necromancer by inclination and a horse, if you judged by appetite. This would make the fifth time he’d gone to the galley since they’d left Sjoktraken, and it showed. Wrapped in black robes, black furs and black feathers, with black-stained teeth and black spectacles, he was his own best advertisement. The robes were looking a bit tighter than they had before.

  Morgrim hadn’t yet warmed to the little man, but he’d come in handy the last game, after the Manglers’ star player, Marius Hertz, had succumbed to a bout of pre-game hijinks. At the moment, a large portion of the team was only in one piece thanks to Fiducci’s abominable rites. Thankfully, they had him on retainer.

  Fiducci straightened and whipped off his spectacles. He began to clean the lenses on the edge of his sleeve. ‘Ah… yes?’ he said, hesitantly.

  Bundt’s eye twitched. ‘The team are all intact, aren’t they?’

  ‘Well, yes…’

  ‘Don’t say “but”,’ Bundt said.

  Fiducci swallowed. ‘But–’

  Morgrim interposed an arm, halting Bundt’s murderous lunge. Normally, the coach’s temper was fairly slow burning. But the Manglers’ recent victory in the DeathHex Doom Bowl had added some fuel to that simmering fire. The team had climbed a ranking, deposing their long-time rivals, the Haakenstadt Screechers, and were now being sponsored by DeathHex – ‘DeathHex – When they absolutely, positively have to die overnight!’ – which meant more money, more fame… and more trouble.

  The stress of success had shortened Bundt’s fuse drastically. He’d headbutted a reporter from Errantry magazine before they’d left Drachenstadt, and fed a photogit from Fungus Digest to his own squig in Wolfenburg. At this point, Morgrim was just praying that Bundt wouldn’t snap and run amok through the airship, tossing crewmen left and right. If that happened, they might not survive long enough to die horribly later.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Morgrim demanded, glaring at the necromancer.

  ‘It’s the cold,’ Fiducci said. ‘It’s making the zombies stiff. Stiffer than normal, I mean.’ After the Doom Bowl, half of the Manglers’ current starting line-up were ambulatory corpses of one description or another. Zombies made for excellent linesmen. They could take a punch or six, and didn’t mind being set on fire. Always a plus, when it came to Blood Bowl players.

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  Fiducci shrugged. ‘I know a few rituals that might help.’ He smiled thinly. ‘If you’re willing to pay extra, that is.’

  Bundt growled. ‘You’re already on retainer.’

  ‘I have expenses.’

  ‘Expensive tastes, you mean.’ Morgrim poked him in the belly.

  ‘Winter weight,’ Fiducci said, looking offended.

&nbsp
; Morgrim snorted. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice that powdered warpstone you’ve been putting on your puddings.’ At Fiducci’s incredulous look, he added, ‘Doktor, remember? I know the signs of warpstone bloat when I see it. Besides, your teeth glow in the dark.’

  ‘I can quit any time I want!’

  ‘I don’t care. But if you so much as sprout an extra finger, you’re done.’

  ‘You can’t fire me,’ Fiducci spluttered.

  ‘Who said anything about firing you?’ Morgrim patted the axe in his belt meaningfully. Fiducci goggled at him, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

  ‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ Bundt snapped. He pointed at Fiducci. ‘You want a raise? Fine. But you’re going to earn it. Clear?’

  Fiducci glowered, but nodded. ‘Clear.’

  Bundt looked at Morgrim. ‘See? No problems. We’re fine. Everything’s fine. Manglers never lose.’

  ‘We did two years ago,’ Morgrim said, annoyed.

  Bundt blanched. ‘You promised you’d never mention that.’

  ‘The Grimfane Grundle Bowl. You remember?’

  ‘A statistical anomaly,’ Bundt sputtered. His eye was twitching again.

  ‘We lost the game and half our players.’

  ‘A technicality!’

  Morgrim shook his head. ‘This is a mistake.’

  ‘Stop saying that,’ Bundt said. He looked at Fiducci. ‘How’s Marius? Moving smoothly?’ Marius Hertz had been the Manglers’ star player, before he’d overdosed on poison. Now he was a dripping, violet corpse that occasionally tried to bite the other players. All in all, not much had changed.

  ‘He’s stopped leaking.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Bundt exclaimed.

  ‘By which I mean, it’s all frozen,’ Fiducci said.

  Bundt’s face fell.

  ‘Can he play?’ Morgrim asked. He hoped the answer was ‘no’. Without Marius, he might be able to convince Bundt to return south.

  ‘As well as can be expected,’ Fiducci said. ‘Corpses are delicate things – too much heat and they rot, too little and they go brittle. It’s all about balance…’

  ‘Balance? Balance – this is Blood Bowl,’ Bundt hissed, grabbing a double handful of Fiducci’s robes. ‘I don’t care if they’re losing bits and pieces… Get them in fighting shape or, so help me, I’ll find a necromancer who will.’

  Before Fiducci could reply, a horn sounded somewhere in the depths of the airship. The melancholy sound reverberated upwards and outwards through the gondola. Bundt looked around. ‘What was that?’

  ‘We’re either being attacked by a manticore, or… ah.’ Morgrim gestured to the window. ‘Behold, Karaz Ankor. Known to my folk as Krakadrak or the Dragon’s Hold.’ Even now, the sight of that great city took his breath away. Even now, it was magnificent. A jutting edifice of carefully hewn rock, every peak and cliff shaped to perfection by generation upon generation of dwarfen artisans. To the untrained eye, it was merely one mountain among many. But to one who knew, it was the very essence of a mountain – a mountain among mountains, crafted by a folk who knew what a mountain ought to be.

  ‘That’s it?’ Bundt asked.

  Morgrim looked at him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Only, it looks like a mountain.’

  ‘It is a mountain,’ Morgrim said. ‘A fine mountain. The greatest mountain in this range. Look at those crags. You think snow-capped peaks like that come natural, my friend? No, that is all hand crafted and organically produced.’

  ‘It’s snow,’ Fiducci said.

  ‘Dwarf-made snow,’ Morgrim said, sharply. ‘Better than the other kind.’

  ‘It’s snow,’ the necromancer repeated.

  ‘Artisanal,’ Morgrim snapped.

  ‘You sound like you’ve been here before,’ Bundt said, peering at him. ‘You’ve never mentioned that.’

  ‘No,’ Morgrim said. ‘I haven’t.’

  Bundt, for once, took the hint.

  The landing was rough. They always were, this side of the Sea of Claws.

  The crater on the southern slopes of the mountain hold had been specially carved and flattened for airship arrivals. Protected from the deadly winds by a rising barrier of stone, it was the only place in the mountains safe enough to attempt a landing. Even with the crags acting as a windbreak, it was still precariously gusty. Even so, the crew were old hands and had mooring ropes secured and anchor weights deposited within moments of arrival.

  As the Manglers disembarked down an iron gangplank lined with safety ropes, Morgrim heard a scream from above and peered upwards. ‘What was it?’ one of the players asked from behind him. He glanced back at Sora Oflrsdottir. The crimson-haired, late-season trade from Vannheim Valkyries was an experienced blocker and another expatriate from the grim north.

  ‘Doom diver. Someone heard we were coming.’ Waaagh! Monthly employed photogits strapped into aerial harnesses, and launched from catapults, to get the best pictures. Or so they insisted. Mostly what they got was a slew of blurred images, followed by a splattered photogit. ‘Must’ve launched him from nearby. Looks like he caught an updraft.’ He watched the tiny figure spiral up and away.

  A series of flashes startled him. He heard Fiducci curse and turned. The necromancer stood poised halfway up the gangplank, glaring up at the side of the gondola. ‘Paparazzi,’ he snarled, summoning a handful of amethyst energy. He hurled the crackling purple ball at a half-frozen skaven dangling from a strut on the airship, snapping away with a flash. The skaven gave a despairing squeak as the energy enveloped it, and reduced both it and its image-capture device to dust and bits of bone. ‘I hate paparazzi,’ Fiducci spat.

  ‘Still, you have to admire their dedication,’ another player said, as he pushed past the trembling necromancer and made his way down the gangplank. Horst Mueller was the team’s thrower, with an arm like a catapult and a brain like something a catapult might throw. His face, never the prettiest to begin with, was a mass of angry red scars – a parting gift from the Haakenstadt Screechers. ‘Little fella must have hung on all the way from Sjoktraken, just to get the perfect shot.’

  ‘The perfect shot of the back of our heads,’ Berkut Balcan, the Manglers’ catcher, said. The Arabayan was wrapped in three layers of furs, and still shivering. ‘Why is it so bloody cold here?’

  A pale hand laced with dark veins stroked his furs, causing him to jump. ‘Is it? I find it quite balmy.’ The woman’s voice was a thing of unnatural resonance, echoing through the marrow of Morgrim’s bones. Then, that wasn’t surprising, given her unnatural nature. Mimi Scream, the Manglers’ newest blocker, had joined the team in Drachenstadt. The banshee was beautiful, at a distance. It was only when you got close that you realised you could see her bones through her flesh. By then, it was too late.

  Berkut flinched away from her skull-like visage and hurried down the gangplank. Mimi laughed and took Fiducci’s arm. The necromancer patted her hand in paternal fashion. He’d introduced Mimi to Bundt, not long after they’d secured the DeathHex sponsorship. Between the banshee and the zombies, the Manglers had more dead team members than living. Not that that was exactly a disadvantage.

  Bundt was last down the gangplank, dragging the remainder of the team behind him by their chains. The zombies were a stumbling, moaning lot, wrapped in armour and studded with spikes. There was no point in removing their uniforms, and it was dangerous to make the attempt besides. What was left of Marius Hertz was easily distinguishable from the others – his flesh had turned a vibrant shade of violet, and he lurched with purpose. There was an evil glint in the former blitzer’s eye – a bloodlust that was far from human. He wore an iron muzzle over the front of his helmet, to prevent any unfortunate biting incidents. Off the field, at least.

  Morgrim wasn’t sure how much of Marius was still in there. The blitzer had been unpleasant while alive. Being dead hadn’t changed h
is disposition much. Marius groaned and threw up his hands, clawing at the air, as if to strangle it. ‘He’s testy,’ Morgrim said, as Bundt guided the zombies down the gangplank.

  ‘I think the trip riled them up,’ Bundt said. They’d left the zombies penned in the hold with their gear. It was the only way the airship crew had been willing to transport them. ‘You know how excitable they are. Especially Marius.’

  ‘Nice to know some things never change,’ Morgrim said. He ran his hands through the stiff bristles of his hair. ‘This is a mistake, by the way.’

  ‘Still harping on that,’ Bundt said, sourly. He took a deep breath and looked around. Besides the crew scurrying about their appointed tasks, there was no one else around. ‘Where is everyone? Where are the journalists? The fans?’

  ‘What fans? What journalists? The Dragon’s Hold has neither.’

  ‘No fans?’ Bundt looked shaken at the thought. ‘Then who are we playing for?’

  ‘No one. The Tournament of a Hundred Woes is played only for a select group of nobles and notables, who watch from the comfort of their clan halls.’ Morgrim shook his head. ‘I warned you. There’s a reason few teams bother with it, besides the obvious.’

  Bundt’s features hardened. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’

  Morgrim shrugged. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

  ‘It’s not like you’d ever let me forget it,’ Bundt said, acidly. ‘This is our shot, Doc. A win here puts us in soup bones and sponsorships. It’ll add lustre to our gold.’ He swept out a hand, eyes vague with imagined triumphs. ‘Think of it – the Middenplatz Manglers, undefeated holders of the Angry Dragon Cup. From strength to strength.’

  ‘The Wolfenburg Harpies beat us last year,’ Sora said. ‘And quite badly.’

  ‘A momentary setback on the road to greatness,’ Bundt said, fixing her with a glare. His eye was starting to twitch again. ‘Manglers never lose. Now come on… I want to get these lads out of the cold before their fingers start snapping off.’

  ‘Not that they need fingers,’ Morgrim said.