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  Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution – Graeme Lyon

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  Mazlocke’s Cantrip

  of Superior Substitution

  by Graeme Lyon

  ‘Excitement is at a fever pitch today here in the, er, where are we again, Jim?’

  Jim Johnson sighed and shook his head at his co-commentator.

  ‘We’re at the Light’s Hope Stadium in Talabheim, Bob,’ he said, smiling at the viewers at home, ‘here to witness what is likely to be a classic Blood Bowl match between two great teams, the Talabheim Titans and the Black Water Boyz.’

  ‘Ah, yeah, that’s right,’ rumbled Bob. ‘And we’ve been sent here to cover this seventh division match because of that incident with the goat during the–’

  ‘The viewers at home don’t want to hear about that, Bob,’ said Jim firmly. ‘All that matters is that the sport’s top commentators are here to guide them through the athletic spectacle that’s about to unfold. The match will be kicking off in about twenty minutes, folks, so stay tuned. We’ll be back to talk about the teams after these messages.’

  Jim watched warily, a broad – and entirely false – grin on his face, until the warlock operating the image capture spell nodded, the light in his eyes blinking off, and then he slumped back in his seat.

  ‘For Vlad’s sake, Bob, remember where we are. Any more of that and you’ll get us chased by a mob with burning torches. Again. I started playing Blood Bowl to get away from that sort of treatment.’

  Bob sighed, his huge shoulders slumping. ‘I know, Jim. It’s just such a waste of time us being here. These little league games are so boring. We’ll just be going through the motions. Nothing interesting is going to happen…’

  ‘We’ve got this one in the bag.’ Gerritt Vanderwald grinned as he looked at his team. The Talabheim Titans were in their locker room at the stadium they called home, and it was time for the pre-game pep talk. Fortunately, it was far from a difficult job. The team – thirteen humans and the lumbering ogre known as Ghurg – were relaxed and ready for the big match. In their crimson and white kit, they were hanging on his every word, eager to soak up his wisdom like the apothecary’s sponge would soak up bloodied water later. So he gave them the benefit of his years in the game.

  ‘The Boyz are on a losing streak a mile wide. You guys are the strongest you’ve ever been. Just keep it together and we’re golden. And with the big city commentators here, and lots of media attention, some of you…’

  He directed his attention towards Johann Walsh and Kurt Grafstein, the team’s undoubted star players. Johann was a catcher of such skill that Vanderwald was sure he’d be poached by a team like the Reikland Reavers any day now, while Kurt was a competent blitzer, with the attitude of Griff Oberwald and about half the skill, but still better than the rest of them. Kurt’s attitude was far better – he was sitting in rapt attention, leaning forward to catch every word, while Johann seemed to be barely present. No doubt lost in dreams of glory, or at least of the cheerleading squad. ‘Some of you might just get a nice endorsement deal out of this. And that’ll be good for us all,’ Gerritt finished.

  Times had been hard for the Titans lately. They’d had a nice winning streak, but in their position outside of the major leagues, that didn’t equate to much money, and they were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. This opportunity – a broadcast game, with the famous Jim and Bob commentating, here at the team’s home ground – was a godsend.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you how much this can turn our fortunes around,’ he said. ‘Get out there, play well, and it’s up, up, up for you all.’

  ‘Up where?’ asked Ghurg, peering quizzically at the ceiling, which given the size of him was mere inches from his head.

  Vanderwald sighed inwardly and drew a deep breath.

  ‘It means we’ll be rich and famous, Ghurg,’ said Walsh softly, looking up at the hulking ogre.

  ‘Will Ghurg still get to hit greenies and pointies and beardies?’ asked the ogre, his brows creasing with the effort of forming such a long sentence.

  ‘Always, Ghurg. You and me are a team, buddy. You hit ’em and I’ll score the touchdowns.’ He raised one hand up to the towering ogre, palm out. ‘Titans forever, chum.’

  ‘Titans forever,’ rumbled the ogre, a smile breaking across his scarred face as he slapped the catcher’s hand surprisingly gently. It had taken a while, but Ghurg had learned eventually not to break fellow players’ arms until he was on the pitch.

  In another locker room on the other side of the stadium, eleven green-skinned orcs sat in silence on a filth-streaked floor while a pair of goblins chased a squealing squig round in circles. The diminutive creature had caused quite a lot of the aforesaid filth after eating everything in sight that couldn’t fight back, including the benches and the metal door of one of the lockers.

  It hadn’t been a good few months for the Black Water Boyz. In fact, sitting in squig excrement could be considered a highlight. They’d lost every game they’d played this season – even, embarrassingly, against the halflings of the Tinkleheim Trotters – and were so hard up that they’d had to press-gang in the pair of older orcs who usually carried the team’s gear just to field a full squad. Any casualties in the match ahead would be catastrophic.

  Borgut, the Boyz’ coach, stood in the doorway and watched his players. He’d never seen them so down before a match. Well, except Goblin, but he always looked like that. It was a goblin’s lot in life to be down at heel, so that hardly counted. He wished he could tell them what he had planned, but since it was… not entirely within the rules, so to speak, he was better leaving them out of the loop. It would be worth it later, when the Titans were defeated and the Black Water Boyz were in the ascendancy once more.

  ‘Boss?’

  Borgut turned to see his assistant coach, Gazbag. ‘Is he here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah. He’s waiting for you.’

  Borgut looked back at the players again, feeling a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do. It was for the team, he told himself. It was all for the team.

  The Light’s Hope Stadium was packed, with humans from across the Old World, orcs and dwarfs who had taken the long and dangerous trip down from the mountains for the big game. There were even a few elves, keeping to themselves in one corner of the stands, surrounded by haughty-looking guards and servants waving censers filled with sweet-smelling herbs to counter the stench of the rest of the crowd (especially the dwarfs). Gerhardt Mannheim looked around, enjoying the sight – particularly the sight of what looked like a group of Amazons down near the pitch’s edge. He felt an elbow in his ribs, and turned to see his friend Tobias grinning broadly.

  ‘Look at them, Gerhardt. Dunno about you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under them feathers.’

  Gerhardt sighed with exasperation. ‘What’s under those feathers is more muscle and talent than you’ll ever have in your life,’ he said.

  Tobias looked abashed for a moment, then grinned again. ‘Yeah, but I’d still like to take a look. Besides, you’re not exactly a star player yourself, mate.’

  Gerhardt bristled. ‘I have the talent and the knowledge,’ he snapped. ‘It’s not my fault my mam overfed me.’

  ‘Overfeeds you, you mean. Them meals she makes when I come round are always massive. And tasty.’

  ‘What are you talking about? I don’t live with my mam.’

  Gerhardt
glanced around desperately and saw a trio of beautiful girls in replica Titans tops sitting behind them, giggling. ‘I don’t live with my mam. He’s mad,’ he said weakly. They giggled again, and he turned away. ‘I don’t know why I hang around with you,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’d much rather get to know the cheerleaders…’

  ‘Two, four, six, eight, Titans will annihilate!’ Juliana belted out the cheer, jumping and waving her pom-poms in time to the rhythm. Around her, a dozen other cheerleaders did the same, performing a dance of intricate complexity that was completely wasted on the drooling Neanderthals in the stands.

  ‘Three, five, seven, nine, beat them on the scrimmage line!’ The words were painful to utter, so completely banal and pointless. Juliana hated what she did, but it was the only way, short of selling drinks in a kiosk in the stands, that she could be part of a game of Blood Bowl.

  She loved the sport. She loved the strategy, the artistry, the adrenaline rush of a strong push into the opposing half of the field, the sheer exhilaration of a touchdown, the sound of an armoured elbow breaking bone, the noise of the crowd as they set upon a player stupid enough to loiter close enough to the edge of the pitch that a well-timed tackle could push them into the stands. She loved everything about it, or at least she was sure she would if she were ever allowed to experience it.

  The cheerleaders finished their pre-match display and retired to the sidelines, to the audible dismay of certain segments of the crowd. They stepped back into the Titans dugout as the players filed past. Juliana braced herself, knowing what was about to happen. The same thing that happened before every match, however much she complained to Vanderwald.

  ‘Hello, gorgeous,’ drawled a voice from behind, laden with arrogance.

  She steeled herself and turned to face Kurt Grafstein, the Titans’ chief blitzer.

  ‘Kurt,’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ‘How’s my little good luck charm?’ he said, grinning what Juliana thought was supposed to be a winning smile, but just made her want to punch him even more.

  ‘Don’t you have a game to play, Kurt?’ she asked pointedly.

  He laughed a decidedly fake laugh, throwing back his shoulders and placing his hands on his hips ostentatiously. Then he looked at her lasciviously. ‘Not until I get my pre-match kiss,’ he said.

  Juliana heard a sigh from behind her. Probably Emilia or Romana, or one of the others for whom getting attention from a player like Kurt would be a life highlight. ‘I’m sure one of the others–’ she began, before Kurt tried to grab her waist and pull her towards him. Juliana bit down the impulse to punch him and dodged out of his way, anger flooding her. As usual, he tried to move in again, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

  ‘Get out there and play to your adoring fans, Kurt,’ said Johann Walsh.

  ‘But why do that when I have such an adoring – and adorable – one right here?’

  ‘Because you’re paid to make those ones happy,’ Johann said firmly.

  ‘And I adore you about as much as a dose of Nurgle’s Rot,’ muttered Juliana.

  Kurt either didn’t hear, or pretended not to. He leered at her again, then turned and ran onto the pitch, to rapturous response.

  ‘Thanks, Johann,’ Juliana said, leaning forward to give the catcher a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re one of the good ones.’

  ‘Just looking out for a teammate,’ Johann replied. He gave her a dazzling smile before turning and running onto the field to the adulation of the crowd.

  ‘He don’t look like much of a wizard,’ said Gazbag in a whisper.

  Borgut was forced to agree. The sorcerer was his last-ditch attempt to bring the Black Water Boyz back to glory. They were never going to beat a team like the Titans by legitimate means, and the limited magic that the Colleges allowed their licensed wizards to perform wasn’t going to do the trick. Borgut had been directed to this Mazlocke character after making some discreet enquiries in the seedier hostelries of Talabheim. He hadn’t met the wizard face to face, or even anyone who’d used his services, but he had seized the opportunity regardless. If Mazlocke could deliver what he promised, he’d be well worth his hefty fee, which had drained the last of the team’s coffers.

  The wizard was a small man (though all humans looked small to Borgut, to be fair), and wasn’t as impressive as he’d expected. His robes were threadbare and patched, and his beard wasn’t much better. He looked a lot younger than most wizards Borgut had met, though that wasn’t many outside the College wizards who policed magic in Blood Bowl matches. This one could have been any age, Borgut supposed. You could never quite tell with those who dabbled in the dark arts.

  ‘Are you, er, Gorbut?’ the wizard asked, peering at a scrap of paper in his hand, his voice trembling.

  The orc nodded. ‘Close enough. Is the spell ready?’

  ‘Yes!’ The wizard sounded much more confident now. ‘Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution is just what you need. It’ll send your players into the depths of space and time and replace them with some of the greatest Blood Bowl players ever, past and future.’

  ‘And we’ll get away with that, will we?’ asked Gazbag.

  Borgut sighed.

  ‘How is the ref going to stop us?’ he asked. ‘By the time he sorts out who’s supposed to be on the field or not, we’ll have scored a load of touchdowns and knocked out most of the ’umies.’

  ‘And then when the spell ends, the players will all go back where they came from,’ chimed in the wizard.

  ‘Yeah! So there’ll be no evidence anything was ever different. It’ll be fine.’ Borgut turned back to Mazlocke and thrust a small bag into his hand. ‘Alright. Here’s yer first payment. You’ll get the rest when we win. Now come on and cast the spell before the Titans score so many touchdowns we’ll never catch up.’

  The Black Water Boyz had trudged onto the field first, barely responding to the half-hearted cheers of the crowd. There were ten orcs, giant green-skinned brutes, each with more muscle in one arm than Gerhardt had in his entire body – not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Trailing at their heels was a goblin. The diminutive, wiry creature looked even more dejected and beaten than the rest of the team. Gerhardt opened his programme and rifled through it to find the team listings. He laughed when he saw the goblin listed as simply ‘Goblin’. He pointed it out to Tobias.

  ‘They prob’ly don’t last long enough on the pitch to make a name worth bothering with,’ he said, and his friend laughed.

  Next came the Titans. Gerhardt sat up straighter. This was his team. He knew every player, and every stat. He could recite the touchdown and casualty records of each blitzer, reel off instantly how many interceptions the catchers had made (and against which teams, when and where) and put a number on the longest successful pass made by the throwers. He knew exactly how many opposing players Ghurg the ogre had permanently crippled and killed.

  And of all the team, Gerhardt was particularly knowledgeable about Kurt Grafstein. When asked, Gerhardt said this was because of Kurt’s tremendous skill, his impressive scoring record and the fact that he had more confirmed casualties than any other human player in the seventh division. But in truth, it was because Kurt came from the same small village in rural Talabecland that Gerhardt did, and had achieved everything Gerhardt wished he could, but knew that he never, ever would.

  In short, when it came to Kurt Grafstein, Gerhardt was as jealous as it was possible to be, and that jealousy had become what Tobias and Gerhardt’s mother referred to as ‘his little obsession’.

  It had started with clipping out all articles mentioning Kurt from Spike! magazine and putting them in a scrapbook. Then there was the Titans merchandise featuring Kurt that covered every inch of Gerhardt’s bedroom walls and ceiling.

  Then he’d spent months watching Kurt’s parents’ house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him when he came to visit. He’d had to stop that w
hen he was caught. He’d claimed that he was watching Kurt’s younger sister, a comely girl about Gerhardt’s own age. That had been awkward, especially when she’d been dragged out and publicly rejected him, but better than people thinking he was obsessed with Kurt.

  Finally, he’d started writing to Kurt, long letters in his cramped, sloping handwriting telling Kurt how much he admired him, how much he wished he could meet him and talk to him about all the player’s many triumphs and how good friends they would be. He had written dozens of them, and never received a single response. It really wasn’t fair. But that didn’t matter today. He’d support Kurt no matter what. He always would.

  The coin flew into the air, glinting in the bright sunlight. Johann couldn’t see it clearly from where he stood in the wide zone, but he knew that Kurt would have called heads. He always did. The referee – a stout dwarf with a bristling beard dyed into black and white stripes to match his jersey – caught the coin from the air and shouted ‘Tails!’ in a voice just audible over the roar of the crowd. Johann saw Kurt and his opposite number, a hulking orc in battered iron armour, shake hands.

  Johann took a deep breath and enjoyed the moment. This was always his favourite time, just before the game began. He looked around, taking in the scope of the stadium – thousands of cheering fans, the great magical displays that showed the view of the various camra-wizards, the smells from the food vendors, the feel of the astrogranite beneath his boots. This was what he lived for.

  The referee blew the whistle, and the Black Water Boyz kicked off. The ball flew into the air and Johann caught it and started to run. It was on.

  Ten minutes passed as the two teams readied their plays. The ball passed back and forth, a few blocks led to some humans and orcs shedding blood onto the field, and a lucky tackle by one of the larger greenskins had a human lineman stretchered off the field with one leg at an angle that was entirely unnatural. It was business as usual.

  ‘Well, Jim, I don’t know what you think of this match so far, but I can’t say I’m impressed,’ rumbled Bob,