Contents

Cover

The Skeleton Key – David Annandale

About the Author

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

The Skeleton Key

by David Annandale

The temple was buried far below a cemetery that had been abandoned for centuries. It was the forgotten beneath the forgotten. Its gods were dead, its idols without meaning. It was a ruin sinking deeper into the abyss of time. Or it would be, if it had been left to the dignity of its slow oblivion. But it had been reclaimed, and a new purpose imposed upon its corridors and vaults. It was a temple of sport now. And in a dugout that might once have been a prison, or a meditation cell, the most ancient of players brooded over the fallen, ruined nature of the age, and pronounced his judgement.

‘Idiots,’ Ramtut the Third muttered. The voice of the star player of the Champions of Death was a harsh whisper, scraping with the sands of history.

‘And we’re back! Jim Johnson and Bob Bifford with you once again after the Dungeonbowl opening ceremonies. Bob, weren’t they splendid?’

‘Rubbish,’ said Ramtut. He sat in the rectangular chamber that passed for a dugout, watching the CabalVision inanity unspool in the crystal ball. He clenched a bandage-wrapped fist. Dust crumbled from the wrappings. ‘Idiots,’ he said again. It bore repeating.

‘That they were, Jim. And a big shout-out to the Bloodweiser Orchestra for a knock-out performance.’

‘You know, Bob, that’s the first performance of Morrheim’s Egregious Fanfare in its original arrangement for strings and scalded cats here at the Dungeonbowl, and I can’t think of a better introduction to the match we have for our viewers today.’

‘It’s a doozy, all right. Folks, this is it – the Bright Crusaders against the Champions of Death. Doesn’t get more tense than that.’

‘Indeed not, Bob, and it’s fair to say the crowd is lapping up that tension. It’s a battle of the extremes. The Bright Crusaders are the league’s most honourable players. There isn’t a single penalty for cheating in their history, and that’s not even getting into the spectators whose lives they’ve saved, even when that meant losing the game.’

‘They’re all about the honour of the game before the glory of victory. Which is just as well, given their win-loss record.’

‘And facing them is a team that has racked up an impressive series of triumphs and body counts.’

‘They managed to take out an entire stadium of spectators five years ago, didn’t they, Jim?’

‘They sure did, and swelling the ranks of their post-life fans. So there you have it, viewers: the incorruptible heroes fighting the undead horrors.’

‘Uh, but aren’t you…?’

‘Undead horrors, Bob. Horrors.’

‘They are a bit crumbly, that’s for sure.’

The skeletons clattered back into the dugout, accompanied by the Champions’ necromancer coach, Tomolandry. They had watched the opening ceremonies from just below the bleachers. The skeletons crowded Ramtut on the bench as they clicked and shook, teeth chattering with excitement.

‘They enjoyed the show,’ Tomolandry said. He leaned against the dugout entrance. His features were obscured by the hood of his robe. Only the tip of his protuberant nose was visible. It shone in the torchlight.

Ramtut grunted. He turned a jaundiced eye on his teammates. They had glyphs on their skulls to identify one from the other, but they were faded or smeared with dirt. Even Ramtut could barely distinguish them. He could pick out some by their physical variations. Spurs had bone growths spiking out of his shoulders. Dropjaw kept losing bits of himself. Straightline had trouble with the concepts of stopping and turning. Cup was missing the top of his skull.

‘Best show ever, was it?’ Ramtut growled. By which he meant the worst. In his day, there had been real opening ceremonies, with proper ritual sacrifices. None of the diluted, undignified spectacle of the present day.

More excited clatters. The skeletons had never been good at detecting sarcasm. Spurs began to clack his fingers against his jaw, beating out his answer in code. It was amazing!

‘It was twaddle,’ Ramtut said. ‘Pap vomited onto the unthinking hordes on the bleachers. The best that can be said of it was that it and its audience were well-matched.’

Spurs lowered his hand, seeming abashed.

‘They enjoyed the fireworks,’ Tomolandry said. ‘Very bright, close and hot underground.’

‘Vulgar,’ Ramtut snorted. ‘Once, there was real grandeur to these events. None of this sad pandering.’ He turned back to the crystal ball.

‘It’s worth repeating, Bob, that the College of Wizards is really playing up the theme of this year’s championship, and who can blame them?’

‘The people who don’t want themes in their Blood Bowl matches, Jim.’

‘And what a lost opportunity that would be. What we have here is nothing less than a classic confrontation in a classic setting. Noble heroes venturing into the dark dungeon to seek out and destroy the monsters therein. That’s the story of this Dungeonbowl, Bob. And the crowd is eating it up. What a welcome the Bright Crusaders are going to receive!’

‘That could be a real advantage for them, Jim, though I see a few unhappy faces in there.’

‘Well-spotted and well said, Bob. If my eyes are not mistaken, those are supporters of Da Deff Skwad.’

‘In a crowd of humans, orcs and goblins stick out like green thumbs, Jim.’

‘Uh… yes. Quite. I must say I’m surprised they’re here at all, given their team’s surprise defeat at the hands of the Bright Crusaders.’

‘I’d say any victory through honesty is a surprise victory, but I agree.’

‘I think there is a lesson here for us, Bob. Whether Da Deff Skwad fans are here to boo the Crusaders or cheer the Champions, they’re here. And isn’t that what really counts in–’

‘Please shut up,’ Ramtut growled. He smacked the crystal ball from its mount. The images winked out and it rolled to the far corner of the dugout. He stood up. What stung was that the commentators were right. This match had a narrative. If the opposing team were anyone other than the Bright Crusaders, he would have guessed the fix was in. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. There was still half an hour before kick-off, but he was tired of waiting in the dugout.

The skeletons filed out ahead of him. The exit from the dugout opened onto the dank, dripping, nitre-encrusted walls of the vestibule. The masonry was massive, but decaying. Ramtut glanced at the crumbling blocks and sniffed. The dungeon had all the structural integrity of rotten bone. No one knew how to build anything to last anymore.

Beyond the iron door on the other side of the chamber was the Champions’ end zone.

‘We’ll be going on first,’ Tomolandry said when Ramtut reached the doorway. ‘The crowd is filled with Crusaders supporters, so they get the build-up.’

Ramtut pulled his shrivelled lips back over his teeth. ‘Monsters before heroes, is that it?’

Tomolandry shrugged.

‘And that, I suppose, is your stirring pre-game speech?’

‘The skeletons don’t need one, and you would walk out before I was finished.’

Point taken. Ramtut could remember some speeches of old, though, that had value. That fired the spirit. That he had memorized the first time he heard them. Like everything else, oratory was a fallen art in this sad age.

‘About the skeletons,’ said Ramtut. ‘Are you sure we don’t need at least one ghoul? Or even a zombie? It feels like we’re conceding before we start.’

Tomolandry tapped the side of his nose. ‘They’re vital to the strategy,’ he said. ‘You know that.’

‘I still say it’s a bad idea.’

Tomolandry clapped his cloth-wrapped shoulder. ‘Trust me. I know what I’m doing.’

Ramtut didn’t trust him and didn’t believe him.

The betting chambers were nestled beneath an overhang of the bleachers. There were a score of the low booths. Beyond them, at the foot of the stone bleachers, vendors plied the crowd with slabs of indeterminate meat on sticks and tankards of ale. The people milled, shouting and laughing, the din growing louder as the start of the match drew closer.

Lots of noise. No one could hear what Greezing was saying to the dwarf bookie, especially with the other goblins crowding around to keep the conversation private.

‘Are you betting on the Champions of Death or the Bright Crusaders?’ the dwarf asked again. His quill was poised over the accounts ledger resting on the booking chamber’s centre.

‘Neither,’ Greezing said. ‘We’re not betting on a win.’

The dwarf raised eyebrows almost as voluminous as his beard.

‘We want to bet the Bright Crusaders will be caught cheating.’

The dwarf stared at Greezing for a long moment before he burst into laughter. Greezing waited the fit out. Eventually, the dwarf wiped the tears from his eyes and said, ‘Very good, very good. Seriously, though, how do you want to bet?’

‘I was serious.’

The dwarf blinked at him, grinning happily. ‘You want to throw your gold away, I won’t stop you.’

He laughed all the way through the transaction.

When the goblins were done, they turned their attention to the halfling who had been leaning against the wall between betting windows, one hairy-toed foot against the brickwork.

‘All done?’ the halfling asked. His name was Pillip. His clothes were dirt-smudged and dark, though his ruddy cheeks undermined the dangerous look he was trying to achieve.

‘Done,’ said Greezing. ‘You placed yours too?’

‘I did.’ Pillip straightened up. ‘Time to see my uncle, then.’

Pillip’s uncle, Hallic, was a referee. He was also a halfling who believed in doing business, and doing it smartly. Greezing had found him to be very receptive in the days leading up to the match, and now he was delivering what he had promised. It didn’t hurt that his nephew had placed gold for him on the same bet.

‘The way I see it,’ said Hallic, ‘Dungeonbowl is already an unorthodox approach to Blood Bowl.’ He spoke quietly but didn’t whisper, rolling his words lovingly, as if appreciating their taste. He was standing beside one of the dungeon’s portcullis gates, his hands on a wheel, waiting to turn it. The portcullis was out of sight beneath the foundations of the bleachers, which only had a direct view of the centre of the dungeon. With half an hour to go, CabalVision had not opened its all-seeing eye on the playing field yet. Greezing and his fellow goblins would have all the time they needed to make their preparations. Once the game began, they would have to hug the shadows more carefully, but Greezing felt sure they could avoid detection and do what needed doing.

‘Unorthodox,’ Hallic said again, pleased with himself. ‘Yep. So what we’re looking at, I say to myself, and I don’t disagree, is enhancement of the unorthodox. And since the unorthodox is a selling point, then this is enhancement of the entertainment. That’s the opposite of cheating the customer.’

‘You said it, uncle,’ said Pillip.

Hallic glanced at an hourglass. He said to Greezing, ‘You boys know your way around in there?’

Greezing chuckled. The laugh spread to the other goblins behind him. Veelber and Gilspat almost dropped the heavy load they were carrying between them. ‘We know,’ Greezing said.

‘Good.’ Hallic looked at the hourglass again. The timing had to be precise. The last inspection of the dungeon by the representatives of the Colleges of Magic had just finished. Between the departure of the College officials and the arrival of the teams, there was a window for enhancement.

This was it.

Hallic turned the wheel. The well-oiled portcullis rose in surprising, but satisfying, silence. ‘Off you go, then,’ he said.

The goblins ran into the tunnels beyond.

‘Well, we’re moments away from the teams taking to the field, and the excitement is at a fever pitch. Everything is pointing to this being a memorable match, if I do say so, Bob. Even the start is something different.’

‘Too right, Jim. For the teams AND for us.’

‘Exactly. As you know, Bob, one of the features of Dungeonbowl that makes it unique is the fact that the teams don’t know where each other’s end zone is. So there are three stages to the match. There are six chests scattered around the dungeon, and the first challenge is to find them. Then players have to get the ball, which is in one of those chests, while the other five are traps. Finally, the teams have to find where they’re supposed to take the ball. And on top of that, they can only start with six players on the field.’

‘There’s a good reason why a single touchdown is all you need to win.’

‘You said it, Bob. But today we’re looking at a historic first for the game. There has never been a Dungeonbowl championship where the spectators don’t know where the end zones are, either.’

‘It’s a brave move by the Colleges of Magic, Jim. The teams are being teleported straight from their end zones to the centre of the dungeon, and that’s where we’ll see them first. I don’t know if this idea will catch on, but points for trying something new.’

‘I doubt you’ll get Ramtut to agree with you there, Bob!’

‘Oh, touché, Jim!’

[forced hearty laughter]

‘Hold on, Bob, I think this is it… Yes… yes… HERE THEY COME!’

The teams were sent on one at a time, and a deafening storm of boos arose when the Champions of Death appeared. On his front-row seat in the bleachers, Pillip looked back and forth between the centre of the dungeon where the Champions of Death were arriving, and the giant CabalVision crystal screen that floated above centre field. It would show the other regions of the dungeon as gameplay advanced, but for now it displayed close-ups of the team. Most of the images were of Ramtut’s shrivelled features, which snarled through his wrappings. The skeletons were too difficult to tell apart.

A human sitting next to Pillip clapped him on the shoulders almost hard enough to knock him off the bleacher. ‘Some home crowd advantage, eh?’ she shouted happily, her words almost lost in the din of the hate aimed at the Champions.

Ramtut greeted the crowd with an unambiguous gesture. People rose in their seats, promising him a slow, painful death.

Pillip kept a straight face as he contemplated the stupidity of the threat.

The Champions moved off into a hallway heading north, and the Bright Crusaders entered centre field. The crowd’s frenzy reached new paroxysms, but the storm was a joyous one now. Pillip winced at the piercing cheers.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ the woman asked. She gave Pillip’s shoulder another clout before she sat down.

Her companion glared at Pillip. ‘What’s wrong? Got something against heroes?’

Squeaky clean drips, Pillip thought, but kept the sentiment to himself. Both humans looked strong enough to punch him through a wall.

‘Just worried,’ he lied. ‘I have money riding on them.’ Which was half-true.

‘They’re finally winning a championship,’ the woman said. ‘I know they are.’

‘It’s Sternright and Gallant!’ the man shouted. ‘Sternright and Gallant!’ He was on his feet again, and the woman joined him.

‘Arik! Dirk!’ the woman yelled at the Crusaders’ Star Player and his right-hand man.

Flowers rained down from the crowd on Sternright. To Pillip’s disgust, the man blushed. He rubbed his square chin bashfully. His face, framed by blond locks, turned a bright crimson. Dirk Gallant gathered up the flowers and set them aside carefully.

‘I was there in ’88 when Dirk ran out of bounds to save a kitten,’ the woman confided.

‘I’m jealous,’ Pillip said dryly.

‘Arik really is sensitive, isn’t he?’

‘Just what you want for a Dungeonbowl player.’ Pillip hoped the Bright Champions wouldn’t lose before the goblins had the chance to trick them into cheating.

The whistle shrieked through the damp corridors of the dungeon. Ramtut led the Champions of Death at a run up the north passage. They had barely started when the two of the Bright Crusaders appeared from central chamber. Ekerd Honourschine and Conrad Knightstandt raced up behind the skeletons. Ramtut had expected the move. The humans were splitting up to cover as much of the dungeon as fast as possible in the hunt for the ball. Ramtut couldn’t trust the skeletons on their own, so he had to keep his team in one group and use force to counter speed.

Honourschine and Knightstandt were fast. They were closing with the Champions.

A vaulted entrance was coming up Ramtut’s left. He slowed as he reached it. The chamber was shaped like a bowl, the ribs of the walls sloping in towards the centre of the floor where a chest waited in plain sight. The chest looked oddly rounded, even soft. It was also present too soon. Ramtut couldn’t believe the ball would be in the first room he passed, but there was no choice. The chest had to be opened. He spun on his heel. He pointed at Cup.

‘Open the chest,’ he said, and charged back down at the Crusaders.

The other skeletons collided with each other in their effort to turn around, but Straightline managed to pivot and ran ahead of Ramtut and the pack. He barrelled directly into Knightstandt as if expecting to run straight through the Crusader. The impact blew Straightline apart. Bones rattled against the corridor walls. Knightstandt staggered, winded. Ramtut hit Honourschine at an angle, knocking him off his path and into his teammate. Knightstandt slammed into the wall and slumped down.

‘Unclean fiend!’ Honourschine yelled at Ramtut and tackled him around the chest. He tried to throw Ramtut to the ground. The skeletons pulled him off. Ramtut yanked the Crusader’s helmet from his head, reversed it, and hammered Honourschine into unconsciousness.

There was a loud boom. Ramtut turned to see dust and bone fragments puff out from the chamber. Cup’s skull hit the wall and fell, spinning, to the corridor floor.

‘Down two,’ Ramtut muttered. The Crusaders had lost two players also, but they were still covering more ground, and faster. Tomolandry had said this was to be expected. That this was when the strategy would begin to kick in. Ramtut hoped it would soon.

Ramtut led the team north again. The corridor branched, and he turned left. There were two more chambers opening off this tunnel. Ramtut checked the first, and there was another chest there, as crudely built as the first. He frowned. ‘Wait here,’ he told the skeletons, and ran ten yards down to the next chamber.

There was a chest there too.

‘This can’t be right,’ Ramtut muttered.

Greezing knelt and pulled another assembly of painted pig’s bladders from his sack. He blew into a tube at one end, inflating the sewn-together bladders into a decoy chest. He tied the tube off, then removed a clay glyph from the sack and placed it on the chest. He rubbed away the charcoal counter-glyph from the tablet’s surface, and the trap was activated. The pig’s bladders would explode when they were next touched. The decoy barely resembled the official Dungeonbowl chests scattered around the rest of the temple, but for players in a frenzied rush, a chest was a chest.

Greezing nodded to himself. He ducked out of the chamber and ran down the tunnel towards the next open doorway. He had three more decoys in his sack, then he would be done. With a bit of luck, the rest of his team would also be wrapping up this stage of the operation. This plethora of false exploding chests should slow the Bright Crusaders down nicely. The plan was to get them so hurt and desperate that they wouldn’t notice the real trap being laid for them. They had to hurry, though. The goblins were in a rush to stay ahead of the Bright Crusaders, and those detestable prigs were nothing if not fast. The eyes of CabalVision would be on the players, so as long as Greezing and his gang stayed out of sight of the Crusaders and the Champions, he counted on their activities remaining secret.

He was in the next chamber and placing his trap when he heard the muffled whump of a chest going off at some distance. He frowned, but didn’t think more of it until, only a minute later as he was catching up with Gilspat down the tunnel, he heard another blast. It too sounded far away, he didn’t like that, and he didn’t like that it came so soon after the previous one. And both of them right at the start of the match. He had been placing his chests some distance away from centre field. They needed to look genuine. The traps couldn’t be too obvious or they would backfire.

The explosions he was hearing also seemed to be going off in the north sector of the dungeon, in the direction the Champions of Death had gone to start the match. None of this was right.

‘Why am I hearing chests going off?’ he asked Gilspat.

‘Probably Yugwitz and Veelber’s traps.’

‘Why do they sound like they’re coming from the north?’

‘Because I sent them there.’

‘What?’

‘You said we should have them spread out as much as possib–’

Greezing grabbed him by the throat. ‘Everywhere except the north, you idiot! We don’t want to nobble the Champions!’ With a sinking heart, he could picture what was happening. The lazy fools had planted their chests in the first chambers they’d found, and now they were blowing up one skeleton after another. The Champions of Death were being ground down before the Crusaders even knew there was a contest.

Greezing pushed Gilspat away and sighed. There was still a way to salvage this.

‘You have the ball, right?’ Finding out where that was had been the single greatest expense so far. Da Deff Skwad’s operating budget for the next season had taken a serious hit to acquire that piece of information. Greezing couldn’t guess how Hallic happened to know which chest had held the ball, and he didn’t care. He was grateful that corruption went as high as he needed.

‘Yes,’ Gilspat said. ‘I have it.’ He lifted his sack.

‘And the fake one?’

‘In the western side. Right in Sternguard’s path.’

‘Good.’ There was still a good chance the Bright Crusaders wouldn’t notice they had a fake until it was too late. ‘Put the real one in a chest near the Champions.’

That would put more pressure on the Crusaders. Greezing wasn’t sure it would be enough to make them crack before the temptation he would place before them, but he was running out of moves. Things were getting messy.

‘How do I put it in a trapped chest?’ Gilspat asked.

‘I don’t care!’ Greezing shouted. ‘Use one of ours! Put it on top! Just go!’

Boom. Boom! Two more trapped chests, and fairly close together. Ramtut distrusted good luck, but this much bad luck was suspicious too. Spurs and Dropjaw were the only skeletons still with him. Tomolandry could get more skeletons into the field quickly, but only to teleport pad locations. Ramtut had seen one since the centre field, and he, Spurs and Dropjaw had left it behind several branches back. The team was getting scattered and there still wasn’t a ball in play. At least the Crusaders didn’t have it yet. The horn signalling possession had not sounded.

The corridors branched three more times. The next chest was in a much larger chamber than the others, which was ferociously hot. The chamber was divided into two by a canal of molten lava running down the centre, emerging from one wall and then plunging down under the other. Huge, snarling idols stood on opposite sides of the lava, reaching out to each other with massive pincers. The pincers held a platform over the canal. The chest was on the platform, veiled in the shimmering heat rising from the lava. It was weirdly rounded, like the others. A ball rested on its lid.

‘What?’ said Ramtut.

‘Jim, we’re looking at a highly irregular incident here.’

‘We are, Bob. Someone has completely fallen down on the job, or else the irregularity is even more serious. The league is still recovering from the Scrygate scandal. Let’s hope this is just a case of extreme carelessness.’

As Ramtut stared at the ball, Honourschine and Knightstandt barrelled into him from behind. The three players rolled in a struggling tangle over the floor. Ramtut cursed himself. He had been too focused on the rushing from one chest to another, he hadn’t realised the Crusaders had recovered and were on his team’s trail.

‘Get the ball!’ Ramtut yelled at the skeletons. Dropjaw ran for the nearest idol.

With Ramtut down, Honourschine tried to disengage. Ramtut wrapped his mouldering fingers around the Bright Crusader’s facemask and hauled him back into the scrum.

‘Your unholy hands shall not touch the ball!’ Knightstandt shouted, wrapping an arm around Ramtut’s throat.

‘And you’re a sad excuse for an opponent,’ Ramtut said. ‘Back in my day… Oh, never mind.’ He jerked his head forward. He broke Knightstandt’s hold, but now Honourschine’s mass kept him trapped. The three players fought and clawed, and rolled further across the floor.

Until there was no floor.

Ramtut saw Honourschine’s eyes widen as he realized, too late, he and Knightstandt had made a mistake. The scrum tilted off the temple floor and into the lava.

The Crusaders lost their grip on Ramtut as they sank, howling, into the molten rock. Ramtut heaved himself back out of the flow with a grunt and smacked the flames off his wrappings. He looked up in time to see Dropjaw touch the ball.

A great horn sounded. The ball was in play.

Ramtut saw his luck finally change for the better.

Then the chest exploded. The singed, deflating ball whistled through the air, rising and falling in erratic flight before it came down with slap on the lava. The pig’s bladder caught fire, and sank beneath the surface just as the horn sounded to announce the ball was in play.

A rain of bones clattered to the ground.

Ramtut eyed the spot where the ruined ball had vanished.

Do we dive in? Spurs rapped out against his cheekbone.

‘No, it’s gone.’

What do we do now?

Ramtut sighed. Ancient dust puffed out from between his withered lips. He suddenly felt very tired.

In a crevice of the ceiling hidden above the platform between the idols, Greezing stared in disbelief. Gilspat had forgotten not to set the booby-trap on the chest. Greezing mentally tallied what was left of the plan. He had to hope Gilspat hadn’t bungled the placement of the counterfeit ball as well.

The plan could still work. Victory for the Champions was unimportant. What mattered was that the Crusaders be caught cheating.

In the dugout, the sound of the horn was Tomolandry’s cue. The ball was found. Now the hunt for the end zone would begin. Time to put his strategy into action. Almost all the skeleton players had been taken out of action. That was more than he had expected so soon, but no matter. The key now was coverage. Get as many players into the field as possible to find the end zone.

Tomolandry chanted the spell of raising. One by one, skeletons rose from the floor of the dugout and headed for the end zone teleport pad that would project them, at random, to another pad in the dungeon. One after another, rattling as they ran. He sent three off in short order.

Tomolandry kept going.

West of centre field, in a vault filled with shattered, empty sarcophagi, Dirk Gallant said, ‘I’ve been hearing a lot of explosions.’

‘Me too,’ said Arik Sternguard. ‘The fates are with us today. Victory through virtue, brother!’

‘Victory through virtue!’ Gallant replied. He clutched the ball tightly to his chest. It was an honour to have it in his possession. Sternguard was the star player, and had every right to launch into the quest for the end zone with the ball in his arms, but Gallant had been the one to open the correct chest. The Crusaders had split up to search more quickly, and the ball had been in the first chest Gallant had tried. He had crossed paths with Sternguard just after his discovery, and Sternguard insisted he keep the ball.

‘Sigmar has blessed you and us,’ Sternguard told him. ‘Our piety is its own reward, but it brings wondrous gifts too.’

They gave thanks as they ran.

They reached another intersection. ‘Which way, brother?’ Gallant asked.

‘The paths both go north, and as our end zone was in the south, either could be the correct route. I’ll take the left.’

‘And I the right. We’ll meet again in triumph!’

Sternguard raised a fist in solidarity, and took off at a sprint.

‘So that was a bit confusing, Jim.’

‘It was Bob, but if we look at the replays, I think you’ll see that Champions lose the ball in the lava just before Guy Gallant of the Crusaders finds the replacement.’

‘Unusual for the replacement ball to go back in a chest.’

‘That’s right, Bob. Just as it is unprecedented for the correct chest to explode. I think there have been some technical difficulties on the field today.’

‘Looks even more like there will be some hard questions asked after this match, Jim.’

‘There will be, Bob. There certainly will be.’

Tomolandry raised three more skeletons and sent them into the temple.

Then three more.

The rules specified six players to start. No upper limit was mentioned. A useful oversight, Tomolandry thought.

Yugwitz crouched in a fissure that was tall but so narrow he had some doubts about being able to get out again. He could barely move, but at least he was hidden from CabalVision’s gaze. And there was just enough room for his equipment. He saw the Bright Crusader charge forward with the ball. The player was tall, fair-haired, his face miraculously unblemished by scars. Yugwitz remembered that pretty face from Da Deff Skwad’s defeat. Time to rearrange it a little. As Gallant drew near, Yugwitz pulled a potion out of his sack and downed it.

Then he grabbed the stilts.

‘Help!’

Gallant screeched to a halt beside the chamber entrance. The woman’s voice called again.

‘I’m coming!’ he called and ran inside. Game or no game, he could not ignore a cry for aid.

In the centre of the chamber was a deep pit, crossed by a thin, rickety wooden bridge. The span was so narrow, it barely seemed possible to cross it at all. On the other side of the bridge, the most beautiful woman Gallant had ever seen was gazing across at him. ‘My saviour!’ she cried, as if she’d always known it would be him. She clasped her hands. She wobbled a bit on her heels. She batted her thick eyelashes. Gallant’s pulse trembled in rhythm with their fluttering. ‘You’ve come at last!’ the woman breathed.

‘I have!’ Of course he had. ‘How can I be of–’

‘The pit,’ the woman said, her voice like honey and the caress of roses. ‘It frightens me so. And I’ve hurt my ankle. Won’t you help me cross?’

Gallant moved to the edge. The darkness below seethed with hissing, whirring and grinding. As his eyes adjusted, and he saw the bottom of the pit was deep with writhing serpents. They were huge, the smallest several yards long. They raised their heads to look at Gallant, spreading their hoods and baring fangs. They coiled around a forest of spikes fifteen feet high. Reaching higher than the spikes, but still a long drop below the chamber’s surface, was a score of poles with scythe blades spinning around the top of them.

Gallant took a step back, his mouth suddenly dry. At least there isn’t any lava, he thought. He cleared his throat. ‘Of course I’ll help you,’ he said. ‘It will be my honour!’

‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. She took unsteady steps back, until she was close to a crack splitting the far wall. Her dress swayed, its slit revealing a long and shapely leg.

‘Be careful!’ Gallant called. ‘Don’t back up any further!’ He started across the bridge.

The woman smiled. She extended her arms in welcome.

Gallant was at the peak of the bridge’s arc when the woman seemed to collapse in on herself. Her back hunched. Her glowing hair dissolved into mist, revealing a green scalp. Her clothes fell in a heap. Her legs were stilts. The goblin grinned, crooked a rude farewell at Gallant, leapt from the stilts and vanished into the crack in the wall.

Gallant blinked.

Something changed in the surface he was standing on. He looked down.

The woman had never been there. Neither had the bridge, or the spikes, or the snakes. He was standing in mid-air.

He dropped with a cry of horror into the lava.

Concealed once more, Yugwitz giggled at the Bright Crusader’s fate. That was a fine success. He couldn’t wait to tell Greezing.

He was in mid-caper when a thought struck him.

Wait. He had the ball. Was I supposed to do that if he had the ball?

Then he remembered the fake, and was much less eager to share the news with Greezing.

‘That’s two balls lost to lava, Jim.’

‘And one Bright Crusader.’

‘Did I see a spectator in the field?’

‘I’m not sure. She definitely wasn’t from either team. But there’s the whistle, and I see the ball is back in play, bouncing out of the centre field teleport pad. This is still anyone’s game, Bob.’

At the sound of the whistle, Ramtut put on a burst of speed, heading back south. No more nonsense with chests now. No more nonsense at all. He had run out of patience for that thousands of years ago. Right now, he was going to turn this game around. He pounded through the dungeon tunnels, wrapped feet thumping dully against stone, Spurs at his heels. Other skeletons joined them from connecting tunnels. Still more ran off in other directions. He didn’t know where they were going, and he was quickly losing track of how many there were. He didn’t care. He cared only about restoring some measure of his dignity and ending this farce.

There was a flash as he ran past the last teleport pad before centre field. Another skeleton appeared. A moment later, the pad flashed again. The replacements were showing up, but he didn’t recognise any of them. They all looked the same.

No matter. He had better numbers now. Ramtut led the run out of the last tunnel and into the vast centre field chamber. In the bleachers that surrounded the space, the crowd was on its feet, howling with excitement. There was the ball, and on the other side of the field was Sternright. Two other Crusaders, Harald Goodstar and Jorn Puresoul reached the chamber and pounded across the stone floor to join their Star Player.

Ramtut roared, exhaling a cloud of dust, and charged the foe.

‘The Champions of Death are all over the pitch, aren’t they, Jim?’

‘That they are, Bob. I’m guessing that Tomolandry’s strategy is to have part of the team search for the Crusaders’ end zone while the rest take the ball, but I don’t mind admitting I’m having trouble keeping track of who is going where.’

‘Another one just teleported in, Jim. I’m losing count.’

‘Yes. We’re looking at multiple feeds here, and it… uh…’

‘Another!’

‘This seems…’

‘And again!’

‘That’s definitely more than six players…’

Better stop, Tomolandry thought. He’d just realized he had lost track of how many skeletons he had sent into the game. He might have overplayed his hand. Time to bring closure to the spell.

‘Niffle fumr ari-bal-car,’ he intoned, then froze. That was wrong. Should he have said ari-bal-den…?

The broken ground of the dugout should have ceased to churn. It did not. Eldritch light still circled around it, and skeletons continued to force their way into the light. Tomolandry moved to block the exit from the dugout. ‘Stop!’ he said. ‘That’s enough!’

The skeletons didn’t listen. They shoved against him in the effort to reach the door to the dungeon. He pushed back. More and more and more came out of the ground. Soon the dugout was full. The pressure of the mob grew too great, and Tomolandry flew out of the entrance like a popped cork. The skeletons charged into the dungeon.

Sternright scooped the ball up just as Ramtut was reaching for it. They had both run far ahead of their teammates. No, Ramtut thought. No no no. He would not be outrun and outplayed by this priggish whelp. Ramtut growled and lunged for Sternright. He closed his fingers around the Crusader’s shoulder pads. Before he could tighten his grip, Sternright jinked right. The spikes of the pad tore through Ramtut’s wrappings, and Sternright was free.

Ramtut sprinted after him. They ploughed through the crowd of skeletons, scattering bones. Ramtut wondered why the Bright Crusader was heading north. The Champions’ end zone was through one of the main entrances heading south. Why was Sternright going this way, running like he was bound and determined to score an own goal?

Answers later. Catch him now.

Goodstar and Puresoul followed close behind, running interference. Ramtut charged between them, and threw his weight left and right. He checked them hard enough to send them careening into the narrow tunnel’s walls. They banged back into each other, stunned, and Ramtut put on a burst of speed. He was only a few paces behind Sternright now.

There was a teleport pad just ahead. The Crusader was making for it with blinding speed.

No you don’t, Ramtut thought, and made a desperate leap to tackle.

The teleport pad seemed to explode.

The conclave invoked by the College of Magic would eventually pronounce that the overload was inevitable. The skeletons poured into the dungeon too quickly for the teleport pads to accommodate them all. The critical point was reached when there was a skeleton arriving on every pad. The chain reaction began. Every pad attempted to transmit, but no location was receiving. The feedback loop of energy lit the entire dungeon with shrieking blue lightning.

Ramtut caught Sternright around the legs. They tumbled onto the pad together, into blazing, convulsed magic and a shifting kaleidoscope of confused skeletons. The dungeon disappeared in a searing flash. Ramtut tumbled through an eruption of non-light and howling colours. Space lost all meaning. Something tore.

And then…

Ramtut and Sternright dropped onto the peak of a huge structure. Ramtut looked around, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, and failing. They were in an inconceivably vast city, whose structures were impossibly tall. The city was at war. Bursts of unimaginable power shattered buildings. Huge engines of war, larger than any dragon, flew through the air, unleashing cataclysm. Swarms of towering, all-devouring monsters attacked walking metal mountains. And…

And…

Were those pyramids? Pyramids larger than any Ramtut had seen with living eyes.

Flying pyramids?

In the midst of incomprehensibly vast conflict, of war and war and war raging to the horizon and filling the skies, Ramtut found himself thinking, Now this is more like it.

Sternright was standing still, mindless with shock. His jaw was wide open, and slack. A string of drool fell from his chin to his chest. His arms were hanging limply at his side and he had dropped the ball.

Ramtut heard a sound like a tide snarling. He looked down and saw a swarm of creatures climbing the façade of the building towards them. They were about the size of a man, but had four hideously clawed arms. Bony structures like spinal columns rose from their carapaces. Their elongated, violet-hued heads gaped ravenously, serpentine tongues tasting the air.

‘What what what what…’ Sternright was saying.

The centre of the rooftop began to crackle with light again. The sorcerous vortex spun. Ramtut knew better than to second-guess the possible exit. There were glories in this place, but he could not remain here. He picked up the ball and turned to go.

Sternright did not move. The terrors of this world had broken him.

Ramtut sighed. He grabbed the Crusader by the scruff of the neck and hauled him towards the light. As he did, the first of the monsters reached the roof. It lunged at them. Ramtut leapt back and pushed Sternright away. The beast’s jump carried it between them. One of the elongated claws of its forelimbs sank into the ball and yanked it out of Ramtut’s hand. The monster tumbled into the vortex and vanished.

The storm of magic convulsed, sending sorcerous fireballs in all directions. It was about to disintegrate.

A horde of monsters clambered over the parapets.

‘Come on!’ Ramtut yelled at Sternright, grabbing him again and running into the maelstrom.

‘And we’re back. CabalVision and the College of Magic wish to apologise to viewers for the technical difficulties, but it looks like we have eyes on the game again, Bob, and… and…. uh…’

‘Jim, what is that?’

‘I… I’m at a bit of a loss, Bob. I can tell you that there are no records for any player matching that description.’

‘Well it has the ball and look at it go! It’s tearing through the opposition like nobody’s business! It’s pounding through the skeletons like they’re not even there! The clean-up teams are going to have a lot of smashed bones to pick up when this is done. Gotta say, though, Jim, it sure doesn’t look like your typical Bright Crusaders player.’

‘It doesn’t, Bob, and… Ah. Well, it looks like it isn’t one of the Champions of Death either.’

‘Nope.’

‘It will be of small comfort to Harald Goodstar, but his was the most efficient decapitation I’ve seen in a score of championships.’

‘What a move, Jim! I’m telling you, if we’d had that player as a ringer back in my day…’

‘I can well believe it, Bob. Meanwhile, there’s still no sign of the star players for both teams and this mysterious new player is on a rampage.’

‘That’s no metaphor, Jim.’

‘No, and the ball has seen better days, too.’

‘It’s just a flapping pig’s bladder now.’

‘Please, Bob, a deflation scandal is the last thing we need to think about right now. The ball is, still, technically in play, even if we don’t know for whom. And now the player is barrelling south, and…’

‘I don’t believe it, Jim.’

‘Neither do I, Bob, but that’s an end zone!’

‘Whose?’

‘We still don’t know, and I guess we won’t until both have been revealed.’

‘Is it going to cross the line?’

‘It is, Bob! It is! AND IT HAS! TOUCHDOWN! I think! And–’

‘Ouch. Wow, that was bright.’

‘I’m a little dazzled, but the player seems to be gone.’

‘I don’t think those tremors are supposed to be happening, Jim.’

Greezing was making his way towards Hallic’s portcullis through a warren of crevasses in the temple ceiling. He was just north of the central chamber when there was second furious blast of light throughout the dungeon. The teleport pads exploded, and the tunnels began to shake. Greezing fell from his place of concealment in the ceiling. He tried to get to his feet, but fell as the floor cracked and heaved. This was all going wrong. The Bright Crusaders had been savaged by whatever that thing was that had come through, but everyone was so confused that Greezing’s strategy was a shambles.

He stumbled down the tunnel, surrounded by a mob of panicked skeletons. Femurs knocked him back and forth and he squinted against the explosive magical discharges. There was no point hiding now. He headed in the direction of centre field, hoping against hope he would not be noticed in the sea of clacking bone and could make one last attempt against the Bright Crusaders.

He was almost there when Sternright and Ramtut dropped out of the air in front of him. There was crack of thunder, and the blasts of magic stopped.

The tremors did not, though.

On Greezing’s right, the cracks in the walls widened. A blizzard of dust fell from the ceiling. The rotten bricks crumbled, and the walls began to fall.

‘Bob, I’ve just been informed that the creature’s touchdown has been ruled invalid because it was not clear whose team it would count for. There’s also some odd language here about it not being clear whose end zone that was.’

‘You’d think the referees should know that, Jim.’

‘Be that as it may, Bob, the game is still on, and a new ball is in play!’

‘With a playing field undergoing total collapse! Exciting times, Jim!’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Bob.’

The walls fell into the lava. The canal was growing wider, becoming a violent river swallowing more and more of the dungeon. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling, splashing into the molten rock and sending burning waves on all sides. The maze was disappearing, turning the dungeon into a single vast tunnel. A large portion of the centre field chamber was still intact. Ramtut was running for the ball. So was Puresoul. Sternright was curled up on the floor, gibbering. Wherever he had been, Greezing thought, it had not agreed with him.

Greezing reached into his pouch. His careful plans were in ruins, but he wasn’t going to flee this disintegrating ruin without making one last attempt. He opened his pouch, took out the scroll he’d been keeping there, and ran, weaving against the shaking of the floor, to Sternright. The Bright Crusader blinked down at him. Greezing pushed the scroll into his hands.

Sternright held it limply.

Greezing took the scroll back, unrolled it and shoved it in Sternright’s face. Look! he thought. Look at what this is! It’s a map, you fool! Do something with the knowledge while it still matters!

Sternright sat down and began to whistle tunelessly.

Greezing covered his face and wept.

There was only the great flow of lava now. The last stone memories of the temple were tumbling into the blazing canal. Hundreds of skeletons bobbed and sank. The centre field chamber had collapsed, and the bleachers were perched precariously over bubbling rock. To the north, there was only the raging source of the lava. To the south, visible at the far end of the canal, was Ramtut’s end zone.

The mummy dredged up his most ancient, foul curses. He had the ball, and he had nowhere to take it. He was standing on a narrow ledge above the lava. South of his position, Puresoul was shaking Sternright, and the Bright Crusader star player was finally beginning to respond. Puresoul kept facing north, looking past Ramtut with a puzzled, frustrated expression.

Odd, Ramtut thought. He would have thought the Crusaders would be relieved their end zone was now utterly inaccessible.

But why had they always been struggling to take the ball north?

The answer came at the same moment that Puresoul’s face cleared.

One end zone, Ramtut thought. Everything made ridiculous sense now. That was why the Bright Crusaders had seemed to be struggling to go the wrong way. They had come from the same spot as the Champions of Death.

This, he thought, is the most degraded excuse for a game I have ever seen.

‘One end zone!’ Puresoul shouted at Sternright. ‘There’s only one end zone!’

The shock of the absurd revived Sternright. He stood, and the two Bright Crusaders rushed along the ledge for Ramtut. He leapt with the ball into the flowing lava.

‘He’s in the lava, Jim! Ramtut is in the lava!’

‘Being indestructible, he’s the only player who could attempt such a bold move, Bob. And he’s managing to hold the ball above the flow!’

‘The crowd is going nuts! And refusing the evacuation orders!’

‘Indeed so, Bob. I think we should pause to reflect on the reversal we see here. The lone Champion of Death is now the underdog. Outnumbered, he is literally walking through fire to snatch victory for his team in the midst of unspeakable calamity. How far we have come from the proposed theme for this match, Bob. Where is the traditional good versus evil, heroes versus monsters narrative now? There’s a lot to learn from this, Bob, and maybe the crowd will look back on this moment in times to come. This is the transformative beauty of the sport, Bob, and—’

‘HE’S HEADING FOR A TOUCHDOWN, JIM!’

The Bright Crusaders ran along the crumbling, heaving bank of the river, a sobbing goblin just ahead of them. The lava sucked at Ramtut’s limbs. It tried to pull him under. It could not kill him, but he felt the consuming fire. The edges of his being eroded, the closest he could know to real pain. He walked through a haze of shredding, uncertain self. Bitter determination held him together. He would not leave the lava. If he set foot out of it before the end zone, all the Crusaders would have to do was take the ball and victory would be theirs. There were no skeletons to help him. He saw a couple on the other side of the river, but the falling ceiling crushed them to dust almost immediately.

Through the writhing heat of the lava, Ramtut saw the doorways and walls tumble away, and the end zone appeared. The lava flowed underneath the goal post. He walked with it to the bitter end. The wrappings on his face caught fire in the last moments, and he could no longer see. It was only when the horn sounded that he knew he had scored the goal.

Ramtut moved to the right until his hand found the bank. He hauled himself up onto the uncertain floor. He batted out the flames on his face. The Bright Crusaders faced him on other side of the goal, honest to the last and defeated, but standing firm as the dungeon broke apart around them.

Ramtut hurled the ball into the lava with all the force of his contempt. Then he brushed off the bits of molten rock and stood firm and silent in his victory. The match was a joke. The game was even more degraded than he had believed. But he still had his dignity. That, in the end, was his real triumph.

He caught the slight nod Sternright gave him. Ramtut nodded back. The Crusader understood.

Dignity. It was all about dignity.

‘Some late-breaking news, Jim. We’re getting some reports of Referee Hallic and an unidentified halfling spectator being taken away in chains by officials from the College of Magic.’

‘Thanks for that, Bob. We’ll be following that story as it develops. In the meantime, let’s get back to our post-game panel discussion, and a consideration of what the surprise announcement of Da Deff Skwad’s financial straits will mean for the next season…’

About the Author

David Annandale is the author of the Horus Heresy novel The Damnation of Pythos and the Primarchs novel Roboute Guilliman: Lord of Ultramar. He has also written the Yarrick series, several stories involving the Grey Knights, and The Last Wall, The Hunt for Vulkan and Watchers in Death for The Beast Arises. For Space Marine Battles he has written The Death of Antagonis and Overfiend. He is a prolific writer of short fiction, including the novella Mephiston: Lord of Death and numerous short stories set in The Horus Heresy, Warhammer 40,000 and Age of Sigmar universes. David lectures at a Canadian university, on subjects ranging from English literature to horror films and video games.

In a fantasy world where violence is a way of life, the number one sport is Blood Bowl - Gridiron where anything goes. Dirk ‘Dunk’ Hoffnung, once a barbarian swordsman, is now a rookie quarterback in the toughest football league you’ve ever seen. Follow his career as he goes from Most Promising Newcomer to MVP!

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

The Skeleton Key © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. The Skeleton Key, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Blood Bowl, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78572-611-8

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.