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Hoppo’s Pies – Guy Haley

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A Black Library Publication

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Hoppo’s Pies

by Guy Haley

The glory days of the Grotty Stealers were far behind. Coach Diglit swung his legs despondently on the subs bench as the shower of snottle piddle the club’s owner liked to call ‘players’ tried their best to get every rule of the game wrong.

There are not a great many rules in Bloodbowl, so they were very close to achieving their goal.

The Stealers were practising their chuck play – very, very badly. Captain Snirbad ‘The Cobbler’ Greenguts was bossing the team about, making things worse. Diglit’s catchers Gufberk and Fugwit invariably ran the wrong way as soon as snotling Ned was tossed down the field, if Ned even left the giant, scaly claws of Ozbog the troll. They were on Ned Five, or maybe Ned Six, that day. Diglit counted better than most goblins, but it had been a struggle getting over five since the accident. Within the iron sleeve of his prosthetic claw, the stump of his left arm twinged at the memory. The worst time to fumble a catch was when the ball had been replaced with a juvenile cave squig.

Mork and Gork, his head hurt. It could have been the fungus brew he drowned his sorrows in or the high level of job stress, but it was probably both. He had loved being a player and hated his career change. The coach’s cap weighed on his head like a stone troll’s bottom.

‘Nah! Over there, stupid!’ shouted Snirbad.

The squealing of a lineman cut through his brain. The team’s sole orc, Nork the Dork, was laughing like a drain. Diglit shuddered and hunkered down, his long ears drooping sorrowfully.

The play was too painful to watch. His eyes were drawn to the balding pitch, then to the bench he sat upon. The paint was flaking off; the wood beneath was grey and rotten. The stadium was in a sorry state. The west stand had burned down five years ago, and was now a pile of weed-choked, fire-blackened timbers. The east stand had more holes in its roof than tiles and every rail of the spiked iron fence he’d put in to keep the opposing fans apart was bent. The turnstiles were crooked, the ticket booth boarded up for want of money to buy new glass after the last riot.

It had not always been like this. Diglit remembered the stadium when it was packed with goblins of all types, stamping and singing as he, Diglit, caught the ball and raced away towards another touchdown. The ghostly wailing of squig pipes echoed from some far away place. The remembered roar of the crowd was a torment. All that had been before he had lost his arm. The crowds these days were thin.

Diglit blinked. Movement caught his attention at the corner of the field. Not the furtive movement of goblins, but the confident swagger of… a dwarf?!

Diglit’s gripped the bench. Splinters dug into his remaining hand. The pincer of his claw crunched through the wood.

‘Oi!’ he shouted, shooting upright. ‘Oi!’

He marched across the patchy turf, kicking an errant squig out of the way in anger.

‘What you doing here, stunty?’ he shouted.

The dwarf was wearing a riveted construction helmet polished to a high shine, and a fine set of armour. A human came out of the ruins of the west stand as Diglit approached. He slowed, his natural goblin cowardice triumphing over his indignation. Hope tacked itself onto this quick emotional switch. The duo were builders of some sort, that much was clear from their clipboards, helms and interesting collections of coloured quills tucked into their top pockets. For the tiniest sliver of a second, Diglit thought that maybe, just maybe, Boss Grobblehod had sent them to rebuild the west stand.

Of course, life didn’t work out like that. Especially Diglit’s life.

‘Ah, er, well well!’ said the man, who sweated nervously in the goblin’s direction. ‘Coach Doglet is it?’

‘Diglit,’ said Diglit, grinding his pointy teeth together. The man was twice his weight, but seemed worried about something.

‘Quite,’ the man checked his clipboard. His face did the little, complex dance of a man engaged in an internal monologue he is unwilling to share. The dwarf glared at Diglit without blinking. Eventually, the human looked up. ‘Weren’t you informed?’ he said sheepishly.

‘Of what?’ said Diglit. He folded his arms over his grubby Stealers jersey. His prosthetic claw dug into his armpit.

‘Of the survey,’ said the man. ‘We’re here to look the stadium over. Boss Grobblehod is selling it off, didn’t you hear?’

‘What?’

‘No wins, no team,’ said the dwarf. He smiled, displaying two rows of gold teeth. His voice was so deep it hurt the goblin’s ears. ‘Boss Grobblehod isn’t pleased with you, little greeny. Prime land, this. Make an excellent place for real estate. Actually,’ said the dwarf with an expression of mock realisation, ‘he might have bought your hopeless band only to get his hands on your stadium. Can you imagine that?’

‘What?’ said Diglit.

‘Not for goblins. No,’ said the dwarf, answering a question Diglit hadn’t asked. His smile grew, making his black beard bristle. ‘Filthy things. All this is going to be tree house condominiums for elves.’ He whipped out a leaflet from his back pocket. Leafy Heights, it read. Arboreal Life for the Discerning Fey. ‘They don’t smell. And they pay their bills.’

‘Mr Hoffsonsson,’ admonished the man. ‘There is no need to be so… racist.’

Hoffsonsson mumbled something under his breath, his psychotic smile still plastered over his face.

‘What?’ said Diglit again, but it came out as a pathetic squeak this time.

‘It’s all here, I’m afraid,’ said the human, holding out his clipboard. A sheet of paper dense with words was thrust into Diglit’s face. He had time to read precisely none of it before it was snatched away. ‘If that’s not good enough for you, you can speak with the boss himself…?’

The man let his question hang. Diglit had no wish to see Boss Grobblehod.

He looked from the feigned sympathy of the human to the undisguised hatred of the dwarf. His temper snapped.

‘I remember this place when it was full of goblins, cheering us all the way to the touchline,’ he said. ‘We’s just in a rough patch, is all. I’ll make the Stealers great again, you’ll see! We’s got a match tomorrow, and we is gonna win!’

A horrible scream echoed around the dilapidated stadium. It didn’t seem physically possible, but Mr Hoffsonsson’s grin got even bigger as he stared past Diglit at the players.

‘Good luck with that, greeny.’

Diglit spun around. Goblins were running in every direction. Ozbog the troll was scratching his behind with one hand. In the other, he held half of Ned. His eyes stared off into that distant realm only the truly moronic can see. His jaw worked round and round on a tricky piece of grub. Ned’s head, for sure.

‘No no no no no no no no!’ said Diglit. ‘You two, wait here!’ Then he took off, sprinting back through careening greenskins to the centre of the pitch.

Only Snirbad and Nork the Dork were still in place. Snirbad was kicking a linesman in the head; Nork the Dork was bent double, laughing at the violence so hard his drool spattered the field.

The snotling’s skull cracked noisily in Ozbog’s mouth.

‘No! No! Bad Ozbog, bad!’ shrieked Diglit, waving his hands up at the troll. ‘You’s not supposed to eat ’em, you’s supposed to throw ’em!’

Ozbog’s eyes slid around to look at the coach, then at the tattered remains of the snotling. He sighed deeply, and with a nonchalant heave pitched the remains of the dead snotling all the way down the field. It hit the rotten pitch siding with a wet bang.

Diglit snatched his cap off and jumped up and down on the spot. ‘Not now! While he’s still alive! With the ball!’

Nork hooted all the louder.

‘Don’t know why you’s laughing, orc boy,’ snarled Diglit. ‘You’s so stupid you can’t tell your feet from your hands.’

Nork’s craggy forehead wrinkled. ‘I does,’ he said slowly. He held up his hand. ‘This is my, um, and this is…’ He stopped, confounded. ‘Er.’

Diglit blew his whistle. The shrill noise stopped the fleeing greenskins in their tracks. ‘Everyone back here!’ he shouted. ‘You!’ he stabbed his claw at Ozbog. ‘Stay here!’

Ozbog belched.

‘Nork, stop laughing. Snirbad, stop kicking Buksnag in the head.’ Diglit tugged his dirty trousers up. ‘You’s pathetic. You’s rubbish. I’m getting another snotling, and then we’s going to do this properly, right?’

Diglit stomped off towards the facilities under the east stand.

‘The Cobbler,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Be all right if we called him that for some Mork brilliant game reason, like, like if he nailed people’s feet to the ground. Stupid. It’s only his day job, innit? Zogging Snirbad.’

It was true. The Stealers couldn’t afford full-time pro players any more. His captain was a shoemaker. The rest of them Diglit had drugged, kidnapped, blackmailed or told outrageous lies to in order to get them in the squad. Of the sixteen potential players he could choose from – not counting the snotties of course, there were always hundreds of them – Ozbog and Nork alone were pros, and they were both rubbish.

He ambled through the tunnel towards the changing rooms, feet splashing through an inch of dirty water. Rippling, reflected light shone on the ceiling. A strong smell tickled his nostrils, a sort of nauseating combination of ancient, unwashed gym socks, mushrooms and snotling droppings. It only got stronger the closer he got to the changing rooms. Not that they used them to actually change in any more, not since the snotlings had escaped from their cages and overrun the place.

He reached the door. The water was up to his ankles.

Taking a deep breath he instantly regretted, Diglit lifted up the rusty weight they kept by the door to keep the snotlings in and pushed his way into the dark, dank room.

A dark, noisome space greeted him. Water ran from the broken shower pipes, staining the tiles yellow. The players’ lockers had been pushed over. Heaped on everything were rancid piles of snot mess. From this soft and treacherous landscape, tall mushrooms reached upwards, glowing greenly. Diglit had a nice sideline in selling those. Maybe he’d throw in the towel and become a mushroom farmer. That would be lovely.

‘Here, snotties!’ he called. His voice echoed from vaulted stone and water. ‘Got something for you!’ He fished about in his pocket and drew out a bar of Lustrian Delight he’d sat on. ‘Here, snotty snotty snotty!’ he called. Keeping his guard up – snotlings could be vicious – he peeled the wrapper from the bar. Melted xokolat oozed onto his fingers.

‘Snotties! Snack time!’

There was no reply.

‘That’s strange.’ Frowning, he hunted about under overturned footlockers for the snotlings. Normally the place was alive with irritating tittering and the patter of snotty feet. It was suspiciously silent.

‘Snotties? Come out! I’s got a lovely bit of Lustrian Delight for you!’

Still no reply. Diglit went deeper into the room. Still no snotlings. He stopped and scratched his head.

‘The only time they all hide is when they is scared,’ he said quietly. ‘And that means…’

A dark and rumbling voice cut through the gloom. ‘Hello, Diglit,’ it said.

Diglit whirled about. Looming over him was the coal-eyed silhouette of an orc. A soft splashing announced the arrival of a second. Both were huge, and dressed in identical suits.

‘Gitthrog, Throggit!’ he yelped. ‘This is a nice surprise.’

‘No it ain’t,’ said the first. Gitthrog, Diglit thought. The two were harder to tell apart than Gork and Mork.

‘And it’s Mister Throggit to you, runt,’ said the other.

‘You’ve let this place go, runt,’ said Gitthrog, lifting up a foot. ‘You’ve wrecked me boots with all this poop.’

‘Mine too!’ said Throggit, seeming affronted Gitthrog hadn’t included his boots in the complaint. ‘And I ain’t happy about that.’

Diglit managed to open his mouth to speak. He got as far as ‘Gk!’ before a giant green fist the size of a meteor put him into an unwelcome sleep.

A strange rocking soothed Diglit. It almost made the horrible pain in his head bearable.

‘Diglit,’ said a voice.

‘Go away,’ he muttered. ‘Sleepy.’

Something hard drove into his ribs. Diglit’s lungs deflated like a burst squig, and he came awake.

Diglit was lying bound on the thick purple rug of a carriage. Hooves rattled off cobbles. Wheels clattered. Every few seconds, the carriage bounced painfully. Tight bonds dug into his wrist and ankles, looped about his iron claw and drawn in cruelly so they pressed into his back.

Three unkind faces stared down at him: Throggit, Gitthrog, and their employer, Wicked Boris.

Boris was an odd name for a dark elf. Diglit had always thought so. He had no idea why he was called Boris. The reasons for the ‘Wicked’ appended to the front, however, were widely known. There were lots and lots of reasons, but most involved sharp objects, long, final nights in this life and considerable amounts of pain.

Diglit’s guts turned to water as Boris pulled off his velvet gloves one finger at a time and took out a leather case from inside his fur jacket. From this he retrieved a folded device of metal and glass, which he began to carefully unfold.

Diglit’s eyes goggled in fear.

‘I ain’t got the money!’ he shrieked. ‘Don’t hurt me!’

The orc twins guffawed. Wicked Boris held up one wicked hand.

‘Silence!’ Wicked Boris said. He stared coldly – Diglit might even had said wickedly – from under his shock of bone-white hair. The orcs, though each was four times the elf’s weight, muttered their apologies and looked at their feet.

The elf finished his unfolding. In his hands were a pair of rose-tinted spectacles, which he placed on his delicate nose. Diglit whimpered with relief.

‘You. You told me that you would pay me by last Backerstag. What day is it now, Diglit?’

‘Er…’

‘It is now Wellentag.’

‘I’ll get the money!’ said Diglit.

‘I’ve given you an extra five days, Diglit. You didn’t come to me and tell me you were going to be late. You haven’t said thank you that I have not yet peeled your head like a little green grape for being late. You thought I’d forgotten, didn’t you, Diglit?’

‘No!’ protested Diglit.

He had hoped the elf had forgotten.

Wicked Boris stared out of the window. ‘I suppose you should be commended for your loyalty to that pathetic team of yours. Only a fool bets on an obvious band of losers – only a real fool would borrow the money from someone like me to do so.’ He smiled distantly. ‘You are at least a loyal fool.’

‘It was a sure thing! I was robbed.’ What he meant was, the drugs he had put into the Averheim Eagles’ mid-match beer had been fake and had done nothing to help win the game.

‘You said that the last five times,’ Boris said. ‘I don’t care for loyalty. I like money. I want my money. You have a match coming up. You better win the money – my money – back. Next time I see you, either give me the money, or–’ he made scissors of his fingers and worked them quickly. ‘Snip snip snip! Grape time.’

‘Thanks, thank you, er, sir. Yes. Thanks!’ said Diglit.

‘Do not thank me. Gentlemen, show Diglit we mean business.’

Throggit and Gitthrog looked at each other.

‘Oh, for the love of Khaine! Hit him!’ said Boris, tossing his hand up in frustration. The scent of lavender accompanied the gesture.

‘Nice,’ said Diglit appreciatively. It was better than the stink of snotling droppings coming off the orcs’ feet, anyway.

The orcs hit him. Plenty of times. The carriage rocked madly as they meted out clumsy orcish violence to his person.

‘Enough!’ said Wicked Boris.

‘Thanks,’ said Diglit weakly. He spat out a tooth.

‘Toss him out!’ said Boris.

‘Oh no,’ said Diglit.

The door creaked open, and he was lofted through the air.

Diglit had spent his early years as a player being hurled the length of the field by careless ogres. He had learnt how to land properly. Even tied hand and foot he managed to put enough roll into his impact to prevent his neck breaking. But without his arms free, he could not stop the bone-rattling bouncing across the cobbles, or the skin-abrading slide, or the terrible crash into the refuse cans that finally halted him.

‘Owwwwww,’ groaned Diglit. Rubbish fell onto his head with a soft, stinking thump.

Wicked Boris’ carriage thundered away into the night.

The rope had been loosened by his skid across the cobbles. With some difficulty, he got his arm into a position where a sharp twist of his iron claw could snap it. His arms freed, he snipped through the bonds round his feet. Groaning profusely, the little goblin struggled upright.

He had come to rest by a boarded-up factory. Clusters of dirty tenements lined a cobbled road. Washing hung limply between them. Although the highway was broad, the district had seen better days. The wood covering the factory windows was pasted over with dozens of last season’s Cabalvision posters, washed white by the rain.

He had no idea where he was. There was no one about. He couldn’t even tell what manner of creatures lived in the buildings. Lights burned in only a few of the windows.

Joints popping, Diglit hobbled off the road, past the rubbish. Wincing, he came to a filthy, buckled pavement running alongside the factory, and rested his head against the wall until the pins and needles in his extremities subsided, then set off home.

Now, it is said that certain kinds of goblin have an uncommonly good sense of direction. This is propounded by that kindly, though terribly misguided, school of thought that assumes everyone has to be good at something. Although there are sorts of goblin that can find their way out of a deep cave system or through the thickets of a spider-haunted forest, Diglit wasn’t one of them.

Within a minute, give or take, Diglit was hopelessly lost.

He stumbled on through the night, becoming colder and more miserable with every step. The few gas lamps that hadn’t been smashed hissed sinisterly. Luminous things flew overhead through the thin mist, making him dive for cover.

It was while hiding from one of these spectres that the most delicious smell hit his sensitive nose. His nostrils twitched. His stomach grumbled. Before he knew it, he was limping towards the source. A dark alleyway opened between two dirty buildings. Squinting, he saw a small caravan lit by a single small lantern. A fat pony wearing a nosebag was yoked to the front. The caravan was brightly coloured, the red-trimmed blue panels decorated with pictures of pies.

‘A pie wagon!’ Diglit whispered. Seeing such a gaudily painted vehicle in a run down neighbourhood should have set off all Diglit’s well-tuned survival instincts, but his stomach was entirely in charge. His nose prickled. His mouth flooded with saliva. He crept nearer.

Someone in the caravan was whistling loudly. Smoke fragrant with glorious pie scent poured from a crooked stovepipe poking out of the curved roof. The caravan rocked, and a door clicked shut on the far side. The baker was talking softly to the pony. Diglit crept around the caravan, his good left hand lightly trailing along the glossy paint. Reaching the end, he popped his head around, coming face to face with a fat halfling.

‘Good morning, my friend!’ said the halfling.

Diglit jumped out of his skin. ‘Aiee!’ he shrieked, and fell over.

The pony snorted. ‘Shh, shhh, Dennis,’ said the halfling. He walked around to where Diglit lay sprawled on the floor.

‘Well, well, and what happened to you?’

‘What? Me face, it’s always been like that. I’m not a halfling.’

‘I didn’t mean to say you were!’ said the baker cheerily. ‘It is plain as fried eggs that you’re a goblin. I meant you are all beat up.’ The baker held out a pudgy, floury hand. Diglit looked at it.

‘Ain’t you afraid of me?’

‘Should I be?’ said the halfling. ‘Always give people the benefit of the doubt, is what my old man said.’

‘Oh? Do him any good?’

‘Nope, he was eaten by the ogres he was cooking for when he forgot to order enough bacon, but it’s a good principle.’ The halfling held his hand out further.

Diglit hesitantly took it. The halfling hauled him to his feet.

‘You look to be in need of a pie,’ said the halfling. ‘The name’s Hoppo Longfoot, and this is my Pies O’Mystery van.’

He rapped on the caravan with fat knuckles.

‘I smelled ’em,’ said Diglit. ‘Thought I’d come and buy one.’

‘And not steal?’ chuckled the halfling.

‘Nah!’ said Diglit, though he would have stolen one if he could. ‘I got money.’

‘Well, you’re in luck – I have just finished baking today’s pies this very minute. I sell them at matches, you know. Everyone loves the pie van.’ He looked the goblin up and down. ‘Are you in the game?’

‘Coach,’ said Diglit. ‘Grotty Stealers. You won’t have heard of ’em. They’s rubbish.’

‘Oh, but I have heard of them!’ said Hoppo. ‘Go Stealers!’ He made a half-hearted attempt at the supporter’s jig. ‘Yes? If you’re all the way down here, you must have had a bad night.’

‘Bad life, more like.’ Diglit clacked the nippers on his claw together disconsolately. ‘Squig ball. From best greenskin catcher three years running to worst coach in one bite.’

‘Ah, a terrible tale.’ Hoppo made a moue of sympathy. ‘A pie will cheer you up. Come on!’

Hoppo patted Dennis on the way past, and went back into his van. A second later, the serving flap opened up. Hanging from chains, it made a broad counter. Warm yellow light spilled into the alley and with it a flood of mouth-watering aromas. Hoppo looked down from on high benignly.

‘What can I get you, sir?’

Diglit’s wide eyes took in the illustrations of delicious pies covering a board over the rows of warming boxes behind Hoppo. A surprisingly large oven took up the front of the cart. There wasn’t much room for the halfling in there. What was within the pie van was mostly pies.

‘What’s the most bestest, special-est pie you got?’ whispered Diglit. His pains were forgotten. He wanted a pie more than anything else in the world.

Hoppo smiled broadly and counted off his wares on his chubby fingers. ‘Well, I have squig and bacon, and chicken, beef, goat, vegetables too, for the elves. You know how they are.’

Diglit didn’t like the idea of vegetables. ‘More special than that! What’s that one I can smell?’

Hoppo frowned. ‘Oh, that’s the last sort of pie I cook at night. The oven needs cleaning after, you see. With sanctified scouring powder,’ he confided.

‘Want that one. Smells yummy.’

‘It does, it is true, but it’s not a good idea.’

‘Want it!’ whined Diglit.

Hoppo sighed. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Please!’ said Diglit, and for the first time in his life really meant it. ‘I’s never smelled anything so delicious ever in my whole life.’

‘Well, well.’ Hoppo looked pained. ‘Oh, all right then. I don’t suppose one could hurt…’ He picked up a pair of flowery oven gloves and then, after a thought, laid them aside in favour of a pair shot through with metal thread. ‘Lead. Only way to be sure,’ he said with a wink. He opened the oven. There were eight racks, each with eight pies upon it.

Diglit couldn’t see why Hoppo had made such a fuss. They didn’t look dangerous; they were golden-crusted, yummy smelling, lovely pies, but still just pies for all that. ‘These are ready for the warming boxes. You’re lucky to have it right out of the oven.’

‘Yeah, yeah! One of those!’ said Diglit jumping up and down. ‘How much?’

‘Fifty pfennigs.’

‘How much?’ squeaked Diglit. ‘I could buy ten mushroom patties from Burgher Kings for that!’

Very carefully, Hoppo set the pie on the counter. ‘There are certain… ingredients in this here pie that cost a great deal. But I promise you will never taste its like again. And I mean it,’ he chortled awkwardly. ‘It’s not safe to have more than one.’

‘Gimme!’ said Diglit. He took out his purse and upended it. Forty pfennigs, three buttons, a centipede and a startled pocket squig fell onto the counter.

‘Got forty,’ said Diglit. He made his eyes as big as he could. ‘I’m only ten short.’

‘I’ll let you off – you look like you need it.’ With evident pride, Hoppo wrapped the pie in a little napkin embroidered with the legend ‘Hoppo’s Pies O’Mystery’.

Diglit ripped off the napkin. Trembling in anticipation, he raised the pie to his mouth and took a good long sniff. Delicious steam tickled his nose. He took one tentative bite. The flavour was indescribable, like the tastiest squig pasty he had ever had, but with extra savour, and a whole bucket of added zing. It tingled in his mouth, and fizzled all the way down to his belly.

The effect didn’t stop there. Little bursts of pleasure wriggled all the way to the ends of his fingers and down to the tips of his toes. His stump, which was always sore, was soothed. His headache lessened. Energy filled his every fibre. His eyesight became keener, his hearing sharper. He felt the need to run and shout. He felt strong.

‘Wow,’ he said with his mouth full. ‘Wow!’

‘Good, eh?’ said Hoppo, beaming with pride.

Diglit opened his mouth as wide as he could and stuffed more of the pie into his face. He wolfed it down. The sensation of wellbeing increased. He reached his hands to his mouth only to find them empty. Disappointed, he let them drop to his side. Hoppo pushed the buttons, pocket squig and centipede back towards Diglit.

‘A pleasure doing business with you,’ he said.

‘Want another,’ Diglit said. ‘Now.’

‘Apologies, my friend,’ said Hoppo. ‘Sorry. One is quite enough.’

His voice grew quieter at the look on Diglit’s face.

‘More!’

‘You haven’t got enough money,’ said Hoppo.

Diglit leapt onto the counter, making the caravan rock, and launched himself at the halfling. There followed a brief tussle, in which Hoppo found himself overpowered and tied up with his own apron strings, with a bunch of his own embroidered napkins shoved into his mouth.

‘Mmmph!’ he said, struggling.

Diglit wasn’t listening. He held up his hand and flexed his fingers before his wondering face. ‘That was too easy. That pie’s done something to me.’ He looked at the halfling. ‘What’s in it?’

‘Mmmphthone!’ said Hoppo.

‘What?’

‘Mmmphthone!’ said Hoppo urgently.

‘Not a clue what you is saying. Never mind,’ said Diglit. A cunning look passed over his face. ‘I’s got an idea.’ He went to the oven. ‘But first, one for the road.’

He gobbled another pie before stealing the caravan: pies, pony, halfling and all.

Diglit held the pre-match briefing in a dirty tent. It was cramped, and smelt like a small space crammed with goblins, which is to say, very bad indeed. So bad, it masked the smell of the delicious tray of pies hidden under a cloth in the corner.

Diglit buzzed with energy. His entire being tingled. There was a pleasant, strange feeling in his stump. He hadn’t felt this good in years.

He was speaking fast. He had to; he had a difficult match to sell.

‘They only has sixteen players to choose from, same as us,’ he soothed. ‘It’ll be fine.’

‘Sixteen minotaurs, you git!’ shouted Snirbad. ‘Sixteen ten-foot-high, bull-headed, muscle-bound cowmen! Against us!’ He held out his hand towards the rest of the team, smacking Gufberk in the face by accident. Ozbog waved cheerily through the tent flap. Everyone else looked terrified. Even Nork was unusually subdued.

‘Nork not happy,’ said Nork. He was still looking from his hands to his feet in bewilderment.

‘Why didn’t you tell us we’d be facing the Bovine Brawlers?’ said Snirbad. ‘We’ll be massacred! I’m a zogging cobbler for Gork’s sake, not a black orc!’

Fine time you took to come to that realisation, thought Diglit. Snirbad wasn’t particularly bright, but even he had begun to get suspicious when the stadium had filled with drunken beastmen. Now the stands heaved with goat-faced fans, and the rickety grounds echoed to a tuneless rendition of that traditional beastfolk classic ‘Baa-baa-ba-ram’.

‘Look, lads, I know things look hopeless, but I’s got something that will pep you all right up.’

With a flourish, he whipped off the cloth from the pie tray.

‘Oooh, pies!’ said Nork.

‘We’re going to be stamped flat, and you offer us a snack?’ said Snirbad.

‘Not a snack,’ said Diglit.

‘A meal?’ said Fugwit.

‘That’s not a meal,’ said Zogbod. ‘A meal needs some chips.’

‘Neither snack nor meal!’ declaimed Diglit. ‘Better than that. They’s pies, they’s delicious.’ He leaned forward to whisper. ‘And they’s magic!’

‘Magic pies?’ said Gufberk in awe.

‘They’ll make you run faster, think better, fight harder and throw further. These pies,’ said Diglit, ‘will make you win!’

And I’ll be able to pay off Boris, and Grobblehod will think twice before selling off the stadium, he added to himself.

‘Magic pies!’ said Gufberk.

As one, the team surged forward. Diglit shoved them all back. They stared at him in amazement.

‘You’re stronger! Have you had one?’ asked Snirbad suspiciously.

‘I’s had two!’ said Diglit, holding up the requisite number of digits.

This time, Diglit was floored as the entire team rushed at the pies, grasping hands out to grab them.

Diglit crawled out from under the tent skirts as a brawl broke out inside. That was fine by him, just as long as everyone got a pie. The tent fell down, its fabric writhing with goblin shapes as they fought. Soon enough, the sounds of bickering subsided into eager chomping and coos of delight.

Ten minutes later, Diglit was on the field surrounded by goblins with gleaming eyes. They looked upon their minotaur foes without a shred of fear.

‘This is better than fungus brew!’ said Snirbad.

‘I feel brilliant,’ said Gufberk, dancing from foot to foot. ‘I could run for miles!’

‘I had six,’ said Fugwit.

‘Well I had ten,’ said Snirbad smugly.

‘I didn’t get none,’ said someone sadly. Nobody cared.

‘See?’ said Diglit. ‘But don’t go getting crazy – this has to be a running, catching game. You’s all magicked up, but, well, they is still minotaurs and we is still goblins. Don’t try fighting. Run. Dodge. Catch! Just like we practised.’ He thought a moment. ‘Well, not just like we practised – better than we practised.’

‘Yeah!’ said his team. Even Ozbog was paying attention.

The ref, a tired looking Tilean with a red nose, blew his whistle to signal the start of the match.

The minotaurs’ huddle broke apart, revealing the diminutive figure of their ungor coach. Diglit stuck his tongue out at him. The ungor responded with a two-fingered salute.

As his team went to the centreline for the coin-toss, Diglit drew out his last pie from inside his jacket and munched thoughtfully on it. His stump tingled as he ate. His claw felt oddly uncomfortable, and he had to pull it out from his sleeve a good inch before it started to feel comfortable again.

The coin was tossed. The Stealers got to pick, and wisely chose to receive. Diglit went to his bench to watch. With the peep of a whistle, the match began.

The minotaurs’ star player booted the ball hard enough to flatten a giant, but Diglit’s team were operating far beyond normal capacity. Gufberk smoothly caught the ball. Without looking to see where it was going, he lofted it backwards to Ozbog. And, amazement beyond amazement, Ozbog caught it!

Minotaurs came thundering down the pitch, mooing loudly, heads down, in a bid to simply trample the goblins dead. The Stealers could not be caught: they capered, switching direction rapidly, leading the minotaurs on a merry dance. The goblins in the stand laughed. The beastmen bleated angrily. The ungor coach was jumping up and down like a goat on a mountain, shouting to his players, but they paid no heed. They were so intent on flattening the maddening gobbos that they didn’t notice Ozbog fish out a snotling from a bag and press the ball into its scrawny arms. With poise Diglit thought impossible, Ozbog drew back his arm and hurled the snotling down the length of the pitch.

A tear came to Diglit’s eye. It was beautiful. Ozbog’s throw arced perfectly. The snotling and ball bounced across the bald turf. The little greenskin got to its feet, shook out its ears and looked around. The entirety of the Bovine Brawlers were charging around the greenskin half of the pitch, the goblins leading them on like so many Estalian matadors.

‘Go on! Go on!’ bawled Diglit, spraying pie everywhere. ‘Go on!’

With great effort, the snotling hefted the ball, tottered forward, and fell over the touchline.

Wheeeeeeep! went the ref’s whistle. ‘Touchdown!’ he bellowed.

The crowd went wild. There were nowhere near as many goblins in the stadium as there used to be in the old days, but they made more than enough noise to make up for it. Squig pipes blared. For the first time in years, cheers rang in Diglit’s ears. A minotaur had caught one of the goblin linemen and was pawing it angrily into the ground with its hooves, but that was a price worth paying.

Play was set up again. This time, the goblins kicked. The ball went hurtling towards the Bovine Brawlers blitzer, a massive, jet-black bull of a thing. He held out sure hands to receive the ball, but incredibly, it was snatched from the air by Gufberk at the apex of a twenty foot leap. He hit the ground running, a green blur whizzing down the outside field. The minotaurs were so surprised they could only swipe at the runner as he rushed past.

‘Touchdown!’ yelled the ref.

Diglit got up and did a little cackling dance. He stopped. He burped. He was feeling funny. He shook his head. His players were also behaving strangely. Gufberk was running a victory lap when, quite unexpectedly, his left leg fell off. His right foot ballooned in size; his remaining leg thickened. He shrieked in terror, but couldn’t stop. His sprint became a bounding hop.

He wasn’t the only one to suffer unscheduled mutation. Nork stood still, shivering, as long green hair sprouted from all over his body. Fugwit had split into two half-sized versions of himself, which were engaged in a violent argument with each other. Snirbad appeared to be melting into the grass, while Ozbog had grown a second head.

Diglit watched in horror as half of his players spontaneously mutated.

He looked at the pie in his hand. It wasn’t going to happen to him, was it? He’d only had two and a half – well, two and three-quarters. That three-quarters couldn’t matter, could it? Snirbad had eaten ten!

No such luck. The writhing feeling in Diglit’s stump intensified. His claw dropped to the ground. Before his eyes, a pair of new-formed, taloned hands sprouted from underneath his jersey, worming their way towards the light on the growing stump of his arm. All a deeply violent pink.

‘Aieee!’ shrieked Diglit.

The minotaurs bellowed their anger. The ungor ran to and fro along the pitch boundary shouting, ‘It’s a fix! It’s a fix!’

‘Cheeeeeaaaaaatsssss!’ bleated something in the beastcrowd. Outraged, the herd in the stand rushed forwards. The barriers gave way with a series of rotten cracks. The beastmen spilled onto the pitch and into the goblin section of the stand. Shouts and screams and snatches of merry song rent the air as the entire stadium exploded into violence. Within seconds everyone was fighting everyone else. Minotaurs battled the heaving monstrosities the Grotty Stealers had become. Beastmen fought goblins. Goblins fought each other.

‘Nooo!’ wailed Diglit. The tingling sensation moved to his head. He felt things bursting from his scalp. All of a sudden his view of the world changed as eyes opened on the newly sprouted thatch of stalks crowning him.

Behind him – the sensation of being able to look in every direction at once made Diglit nauseous – Hoppo the halfling was staggering through a gap in the fence of the grounds. He was aghast, wringing his fat hands together. ‘I’m too late!’ he wailed. Spying Diglit, he came trotting over, dodging piles of snotlings enthusiastically emulating their biggers and betters by punching each other in the face.

‘What has you done to me!’ shrieked Diglit.

‘I told you to eat only one. There’s warpstone pepper in that pie! I sell to everyone, you see, even the skaven!’

‘What? Why hasn’t it done this to you?’ wailed Diglit.

‘I’m a halfling, aren’t I? Warpstone doesn’t have much effect on us. But even I have to take precautions. It’s dangerous stuff. I mean, what I do isn’t exactly legal. Why do you think I was baking in an alleyway at three o’clock in the morning?’

‘So why did you give me one?’

‘Because you looked sad,’ said Hoppo. ‘And they are damned tasty.’

Diglit slumped. This was a disaster. Then, from the corner of his many new eyes, he saw the ball lying, ignored, in a tussock of grass at the edge of the pitch.

Maybe not a disaster. Maybe not at all. He stood taller. He could see everything. He flexed his new limb. Catching the ball wouldn’t be a problem any more, because Diglit had gone from having one too few hands to one too many.

With a sudden whoop, Diglit ran for the ball. He’d never lost the knack of running. He was a goblin, after all. It paid to be able to run away. The bending of this instinct so that they ran towards things rather than away is the most remarkable thing about goblin players, but is sadly overlooked.

Diglit ignored Hoppo’s shouts to return and scooped up the ball with his new pair of hands. As he legged it towards the Bovine Brawlers’ end zone, his head filled with possibilities. The touchdown he scored a moment later was the first realised, but Diglit was thinking bigger.

Chaos teams won the major leagues frequently, and they had plenty of mutants in their squads.

About the Author

Guy Haley is the author of the Horus Heresy novel Pharos and the Warhammer 40,000 novels Baneblade, Shadowsword, Valedor and Death of Integrity. He has also written Throneworld and The Beheading for The Beast Arises series. His enthusiasm for all things greenskin has also led him to pen the eponymous Warhammer novel Skarsnik, as well as the End Times novel The Rise of the Horned Rat. He has also written stories set in the Age of Sigmar, included in Warstorm, Ghal Maraz and Call of Archaon. He lives in Yorkshire with his wife and son.

Dirk Hoffnung takes to the field for four epic novels covering his career in that greatest (and most deadly) of sports: Blood Bowl!

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.
Cover illustration by Wayne England.

Hoppo’s Pies © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Hoppo’s Pies, 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: 978-1-78572-602-6

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.

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