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Fixed – Robbie MacNiven

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A Black Library Publication

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Fixed

Robbie MacNiven

The stadium was rocking. From the upper spires, where Grizmund and his gaggle of pale-fleshed vampire thralls had secured the best seats, to the pitch-side barricades, where half a dozen fights had already broken out between irate supporters, every man, elf and beast inside the Thunderdome Nordlander Arena was on up its feet, claws or paws. Cabal Vision were giving a pitch-side interview to a halfling pundit more preoccupied by dodging the remains of a Hackers Dunk Doughnuts advertising board being flung by the crowd, while the Nordlander cheerleading team were going through their flashiest routine, pompoms a yellow and blue blaze.

It was half time, and it was going well for the Nordland Rangers. Too well.

‘Do you think the fixers have got to them?’ Klimt asked. The rest of the Rangers shouted the lineman down, filling the dugout with their disapproval.

‘Tell Kelled that,’ Garr said over the outrage, nodding towards the medical lean-to, where the team’s apothecary, the butcher-turn-chirurgeon Mikal Frisk, was attempting to staunch the blood pouring from the catcher’s mangled arm. A Kroxigor, the biggest creature on the pitch, had caught Kelled just before the halftime whistle. His screams were lost amidst the roaring of the crowd.

‘There have been too many shock results since the split,’ Klimt went on, ignoring the abuse he was getting from the rest of the huddle. ‘Everyone knows someone’s got to halve the coaches. They’re making a fortune off these outcomes.’

‘Who in Nuffle’s name would the scalies do a deal with though?’ Torvern, the stocky little catcher, demanded. ‘They’d as soon rip legs off as take a bribe.’

‘Depends on the bribe,’ Klimt countered.

‘That’s enough,’ snapped Coach Rife. The lanky, scarred ex-blitzer took off his feathered cap to mop his brow, glaring at Klimt. ‘That sort of talk undermines everything we’ve done to make it this far. Everything I’ve done, Klimt. Do you want me to bin you?’

‘No coach,’ the lineman said, eyes on his boots.

Rife nodded, gaze sweeping the rest of the team.

‘We’re up eleven touchdowns to six, against a lizardmen team touted to finish a comfortable second in the playoffs. We’re going to put this one to bed. Break these scalies and it’s us versus the East End Boyz in the playoff final. I don’t need to tell you all that’s where we want to be.’

‘Yes, coach,’ the Rangers chorused.

‘Same as we’ve done all season,’ Rife went on. ‘Garr, take us down the middle, box formation. Vulf, can you keep up?’

Kelled’s substitute grinned and nodded.

‘Damn scalies won’t lay a claw on me, coach.’

‘Good. Dumpf, just… do what you’ve been doing all game.’ The hulking ogre frowned, squinting down at Rife.

‘Der…’ he began to say, picking at his crooked nose.

‘Tackle the Kroxigor, Dumpf. So Garr can get through. Don’t let that thing catch him the way it caught Kelled. Stop the Krox, that’s all you have to do.’

‘The… croc see what?’

‘The big lizard, Dumpf. The big, scaly bastard lizard. As soon as he makes a move for Thunderbolt here, bring him down.’ Rife smacked Garr’s battered helmet for emphasis.

‘Sure thing, coach.’ The ogre went back to picking his nose.

‘Right. Okay then. Let’s do this, Rangers!’

Garr dropped into his familiar central position, flexing his back and shoulder muscles. The comfortable score line didn’t reflect the reality of playing against lizardmen – iron-hard muscles and iron-hard scales meant a lot of hard knocks.

He glanced up at the main stand, and the rickety spire-towers occupied by Grizmund and his bloodsuckers. In over a decade of professional league Blood Bowl, Garr had long ago learned to block out the crowd, at least until they started throwing spiked projectiles or shrieking goblins onto the pitch. Today, though, he couldn’t shake the hypnotic, black gaze of the ancient bloodsucker. He owed the diabolical mobster money. Thanks to his gambling he owed half the damn town money, but Grizmund was just about the only one with the means to actually pursue a debt from the most famous and successful blitzer in Nordland history. The so-called Throat-Ripper, himself a long-retired blocker from the Arterial Jets, had ‘treated’ Garr to lunch at the Crow’s Corpse only last week, an eatery that just so happened to sit across the street from the dank, crumbling stonework and rusting iron of the debtors’ prison. For all his on-pitch success this season, Garr knew he was running out of time.

‘Let’s end these coldbloods, Rangers!’ he shouted, adrenaline spiking. ‘I’ll give two-to-one odds on the touchdown whistle blowing in under two minutes.’

The rest of the team growled their approval. Sadly, none of them actually took him up on the bet. More was the pity.

He slammed a fist against his chest plate and dug his boots into the ravaged turf near the line of scrimmage. To the Wastes with Grizmund and his corpse cronies. He looked away from the spire seats and took note of the skink runners making up the lizardman front row. The diminutive yellow-spotted creatures had been unusually sluggish so far, but Garr was still certain they’d try their hardest to slip through the Rangers’ backline as soon as one of their bigger saurus team mates were able to wrestle the ball from the humans. Kriegveld and the other linemen had better be up to standard when it came to their blocks.

The goblin referee’s whistle shrilled, the crowd’s roaring redoubled, and the Rangers were going forward. Garr snatched the ball from where it thumped down after kick-off, its battered leather cradled in both spiked gauntlets. The scalies were defending a high line, racing to meet them. Garr felt a roar building in his throat, body driven on by the swelling howl of the crowd. He hit the line of scrimmage at full tilt. A skink simply disappeared beneath him, his outstretched fist slamming it down into the trampled dirt.

‘On your left!’ Gruber, the younger, rookie blitzer, shouted. Garr was vaguely aware of his offer of support, but he was still going, the chequered earth of the end zone beckoning him on. The catchers were almost in position. He barely knew what was happening either side of him – the thud and crunch of impacting bodies was all he heard. None of it really registered. It never did. Once he was committed, blitzing through the centre, nothing was going to distract him. That was why he was the best. That was why they were going to win.

‘Watch for the block!’ shouted Rell, one of the linesmen following the Nordlander attack. Garr had already spotted it. One last hurdle – a big saurus backliner. Garr had already taken the lizard down twice in the first half. It wasn’t going to stop the Thunderbolt now.

He hit it with his shoulder, a classic barge, his spiked pauldron hammering the creature’s scaly hide. The lizardman snatched for the ball even as it went down, claws raking off Garr’s breastplate and gauntlets. The blitzer put his boot into the struggling coldblood for good measure, driving over him, launching himself at that final grassy expanse. Vulf the catcher was there – he’d made it through the scalies’ backline too. He was screaming for the ball. The crowd was going wild. Garr pulled his arm back, ball in hand, winding up for a throw he’d made a thousand times before. It was all over. The playoff final was theirs.

‘Garr, watch out!’

Gruber’s shout came too late. Something hit him. He knew straight away that it wasn’t a skink, or even a saurus. He was going down, the ball tumbling from his grasp, the air driven from his lungs. His left side crunched into the dirt, the force of the impact half spinning him onto his back and cracking his helmet off the ground. For a second he found himself staring through the grille of his visor up at a clear, blue sky.

Then the Kroxigor stepped over him. Clearly, Dumpf hadn’t managed to stop the huge lizardman. The ogre was probably still too busy picking at a particularly intransigent wad of snot lodged in his nostril.

‘Great Nuffle’s hairy arse,’ Garr panted, struggling for breath. The ball was embedded in the dirt next to him, spikes gleaming. He lunged for it.

And so did the lizardmen. With a shriek, a swarm of skinks mobbed him from every side, burying him in a mound of scrabbling, pale, leathery flesh. Garr tried to heave himself up, but found he was pinned. As the mound of bodies on top of him increased, the pressure became unbearable. He panicked, rendered helpless, unable to see for the creatures swarming over him. The last thing he felt before the darkness took him was the Kroxigor’s grip on his leg, tightening.

Garr woke up reaching for the ball. It took a second for him to realise he was clutching at blocker Markus’s thigh. He was on his back, and he was moving, though at first he wasn’t sure how. Above was a cloudless sky, and faces. Girls. Garr realised that he was dead. He was dead, and in heaven.

As was, apparently, the entire cheerleading squad. Garr blinked. No, he wasn’t dead after all. He was on a stretcher. Another face pushed its way in amongst the concerned expressions of the Nordlander cheerleaders. Torvern, streaked with sweat. The lineman was speaking, but Garr couldn’t make out the words. His ears were ringing, the incessant buzz overlaying a distant roar that swelled like the crash of waves upon a far-off, jagged coastline. After a moment he recognised the sound – thirty thousand bloodthirsty spectators, howling equal parts approval and dismay.

He was being carried towards the tunnel and out of the rickety old timber stadium. His leg was in agony. He tried to sit, but even looking for purchase with his elbows set his head spinning. He slumped back, as the tidal roar rose up to swallow him. The last thing he heard were Torvern’s words, repeated over and over, reaching him as though from far away.

We won.

The light filtering through the yellow canvas of the apothecary’s tent stained everything the colour of stale urine. Garr gritted his teeth, as much to keep out the smell as to bite back against the pain infusing his leg.

‘It looks bad,’ said Frisk, looming over the table Garr had been laid on.

‘Is that a professional medical opinion, sawbones?’ Garr demanded, glaring up at the fat ex-butcher. Frisk grimaced, his heavy jowls streaked with sweat. The tent was infernally hot, and the apothecary’s grubby blue overalls were stained dark with perspiration.

‘As professional as it’s going to get, I’m afraid,’ he said, lifting the cloth away from Garr’s thigh. The Thunderbolt focused his eyes on the canvas directly above – he didn’t want to see it. He felt chubby fingers probe his limb.

‘Does that hurt?’

‘No,’ Garr growled, knuckles white.

‘How about now?’

Garr nodded through clenched teeth.

‘I’m going to have to operate,’ Frisk said, leaning over Garr so the Thunderbolt was looking up at him.

‘You keep your damn rusty blades away from me,’ Garr snapped. Before Frisk could respond the tent flap snatched back. Coach Rife ducked inside, pulling his feather cap from his balding head.

‘Well?’ he demanded, eyes darting from the apothecary to his star player. Frisk shrugged.

‘Like I said, it’s bad.’

‘No one can see you like this,’ Rife said, turning to Garr. ‘The fans will go wild. There’ll be a riot. We’ve got to get you fixed up.’

‘Just keep this butcher away from me,’ Garr said, forcing himself up onto one elbow. ‘I’ll not play in the final if he touches me, you can bet your last reikmark on it.’

‘If I don’t operate, you won’t play again at all,’ Frisk said. ‘Then he won’t be leading your lineout any more, Herr Rife.’

‘Is that your professional medical opinion?’ Rife asked.

Frisk sighed loudly, mopping at his chins with a stained handkerchief.

‘This team pays me to treat it. The money comes out of your earnings as well. By all means, let your star player walk out of here right now – assuming he can even stand. But don’t blame me when he finally comes to terms with the fact that he refused to have a career-threatening injury operated on.’

Rife looked at Frisk, then at Garr, then back to Frisk. He approached the operating table and peered at the Thunderbolt’s exposed thigh. The stinking shadows couldn’t hide his grimace.

‘It’s bad,’ he said.

‘I know, damn it,’ Garr spat, still refusing to look at the injury. ‘I’m not letting him give me the chop, Rife.’

‘You’ll still have two legs,’ Frisk mumbled. ‘I’ll fix it. Just… don’t worry!’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Garr snarled.

‘You won’t even notice the difference, trust me. In fact, you may even be able to play better!’

‘Frisk is right,’ Rife said, patting Garr’s bruised shoulder. ‘I pay him too damn much not to use his… abundant medical talents.’

Garr slumped back, eyes closed.

‘Just not above the thigh, right doc?’

‘Keep your knives away from his crotch,’ Rife said to Frisk. The apothecary rolled his piggy eyes and picked up a tankard from a nearby bench.

‘Bugman’s XXXXXX,’ he said, bending down to help Garr into a sitting position.

‘For the pain?’ Garr asked, reaching out shakily. He grimaced when, instead of passing it to him, Frisk gulped down the tankard’s contents instead.

‘For my hands,’ the ex-butcher said, belching loudly. ‘Helps keep them steady. Right, let’s get started.’

They smuggled him from the stadium district in the back of an anonymous black hire carriage, the driver walking away with a few coins and promises that his family would suffer if a word of the Thunderbolt’s state reached the papers. Garr lolled in the carriage’s back seat, half covered by a team blanket, blessedly oblivious to every jarring rut. Rife had at least managed to convince Frisk to be liberal with the poppy tonic, or he had after Garr’s screaming had run the risk of alerting people to his condition.

There were no opportunistic journos lurking around the Thunderbolt’s luxury inner-town manse – the baleful presence of Nog made sure of that. The ever-faithful ogre ex-player was patrolling the perimeter, a big, lumbering shape in the fading light. Frisk and Rife managed to haul Garr from the carriage and put him into the ogre’s arms.

‘Take… him… bed,’ Rife said, speaking slowly. ‘Don’t let anyone in until we return. Especially not any reporters, or Grizmund’s debt collectors.’

Nog nodded.

‘What did he just say?’ Frisk asked.

‘Put Thunderman bed,’ the ogre said slowly, squinting. ‘And… no let-ins.’

‘Don’t let him put any betting coupons on either,’ Frisk said as they left.

Garr remained unconscious as Nog carried him through what had once been the most sought-after bachelor pad in the Lower Nordside. Now dark reikswood-panelled walls that had once been hung with signed sketches of the greatest Rangers were bare, their decorations auctioned off one after the other to pay for Garr’s inveterate gambling. The floors were similarly unadorned, the thick Araby rugs long gone. Every surface was collecting dust, and cobwebs had started to conglomerate around the ceiling – he’d stopped paying the cleaner just over a month before. Of course she’d run to the press with reports about the state of Garr’s finances, reports Rife had been quick to counter. A halfling cleaner would say anything for a free pie or two.

Nog placed Garr carefully on his cheap wooden bed and, with forefinger and thumb, tucked him beneath the blue and yellow covers. The ogre stood looking down at his master, a lazy smile tugging at his blunt features. After a while he seemed to snap back to the present. He tiptoed over to the window, the dusty floorboards squealing beneath his weight. Satisfied that it was closed, he glanced one more time at his master before lumbering from the room.

Two days passed. Frisk visited frequently with a variety of home-made potions and salves, keeping Garr under for what he described as ‘bonding time’. Nog fed the blitzer during his rare moments of lucidity, Garr accepting messy spoonfuls only with glaring truculence. The papers would have a field day if they could see him – the highest capped, highest-earning, longest-serving blitzer in Nordland history – laid up and baby-fed by his big, clumsy house-ogre.

It all changed on the third night. Frisk had been and gone, demanding as usual that Garr keep his leg tightly bound, and refrain from putting too much weight on it. Nog had administered his evening repast – brutally hacked-up vegetables in a soupy mixture tarnished with far too much Stirland pepper. Garr was dozing off, the pain of his damaged limb a dull, distant ache.

A scratching sound disturbed him. He looked up at the ceiling’s timber beams, but saw nothing. That was when something unusual struck him. He realised that he was cold.

There was a breeze. It was knocking, ever so gently, at the open shutters. Garr sat up, scowling. Nog had forgotten to lock the window. He drew a breath to bark the ogre’s name, then thought better of it. He’d seen enough of the lumbering oaf over the past two days.

He threw back the covers, struck a spark to the candle stub and, after a second’s hesitation, swung both limbs out over the edge of the bed. The injury had gone from painful to infernally itchy. He glared down at the inelegant wedge of bandages and plaster, willing the sensation to go away. Then, when it didn’t, he stepped down onto the floor.

The itch turned to pain, and he flinched. Still, his other leg could take enough weight. He tottered over to the window, closed it, and banged the lock down. Then he slumped back into his bed.

The itching grew worse. It was unbearable. What in Nuffle’s name had that damned butcher done to him?

He could stand it no longer. He snatched the covers back again and reached down to start tearing away the stiff bandages. They tore loudly in his fevered grip, cast across the room as he dug towards the source of the itch. Finally, his nails scraped something that wasn’t just cloth and plaster of Parravon. Pain pulsed dully from beneath his fingertips. Only, he wasn’t probing flesh. He frowned, wondering what sort of plaster Frisk had used for the lower cast.

More of the bandages fell away, and he saw something that made the itch vanish into insignificance. It wasn’t plaster he could feel after all.

Before him was a thigh completely covered in thick, dark blue scales. They glistened in the flickering candlelight, hard to the touch. Slowly, mouth agape, he dragged away the bandages around his waist, exposing where Frisk had sewed and sutured the unnatural flesh to his own upper leg. The sight set his stomach churning. It only got worse when he moved the leg slightly, and the strange, leathery skin beneath the scales responded.

He’d seen this leg before. He knew exactly where it had come from. The coldbloods. One of the saurus blockers. Frisk had replaced his lower limb with a lizardman leg!

Maybe he’d have screamed, were it not for the scratching. The sound was back, digging away at the timber somewhere in the room. As he focused on it the heavy Guterdorf grandfather clock – the only one in the house not yet sold off or gambled away – counted sonorously past the witching hour. He started. The hideous limb twitched. Garr croaked a curse as the scraping sound continued. One of the worst things about going bankrupt was running out of money to pay the rat catcher. The old townhouse seemed permanently infested.

‘Nog,’ he said, his voice a dry croak. As he tried to marshal some spit he suddenly became aware of a presence beside his bed.

‘Hippogriff’s balls,’ he grunted, twisting towards the figure. It stumbled back – curiously unstable – a tall, hunched man, wrapped up in an off-white cloak with a raised cowl. In one bandage-bound hand he gripped a crooked staff.

‘I’ve got no time for apparitions,’ Garr snapped, mastering his shock. ‘And if you… by Nuffle’s rusty knuckleduster, you stink! Where did you come from, the waste shaft? Is that how you got in?’

‘Mister Greyg,’ said the spectre in a curiously high-pitched voice. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mister Squimper.’

‘I’ll allow you to get out of my damned house, you falsetto geriatric,’ Garr said. ‘Or I’ll have my ogre snap your crooked back into shape.’

‘I’ll be gone soon enough, Mister Greyg, y-yes,’ Squimper said, swaying unsteadily. ‘But first, I h-have a proposition for you to consider.’

‘What’s wrong with your voice?’

The stranger paused for a moment, as if thinking. ‘I… I’m Bretonnian,’ he said.

‘Now it makes sense. Is that brown stuff on your cloak what I think it is?’

‘Your leg is badly damaged, Mister Greyg.’

‘My leg is gone,’ Garr snapped. ‘I don’t even know if this monstrosity is a leg.’ He prodded the blue scales again.

‘It will serve you well, if you have time to heal. But you do not. You will not play in the final, Mister Greyg. And without you, the Nordland Rangers will l-lose their last hope of promotion back to the Majors.’

‘Listen, you stuttering snail-eater–’

The tall figure bent unsteadily over Garr’s bed and placed one bandaged hand on his new leg, the long, bony fingers gripping him. An ugly green glow suffused the room, seemingly emanating from Squimper’s crooked staff. The sewer-stink redoubled.

Garr cried out at the sudden grip on his scaled flesh, expecting a fresh flood of pain. Instead, all he felt was numbness. Cool, soothing oblivion. The green light faded, though the stench remained. In the distance what sounded like a town bell tolled, though it was long past the hour.

‘What did you do?’ Garr demanded, trying to wriggle away from the figure. It let go, yet the sweet numbness remained.

‘I can heal this, and more,’ Squimper said.

‘You’re some sort of stinking Bretonnian spell-weaver then? Well, magician or not, you still smell like sh–’

‘These effects are not permanent,’ Squimper interjected with his high squeak. ‘They are dependent entirely on my goodwill.’ The apparition clicked its fingers, and the pain in his lizard leg returned, worse than before. Garr moaned and slumped back against his pillows.

‘I can make sure you compete in your playoff final, Mister Greyg,’ said Squimper. ‘And I have a further incentive, one that those you owe would surely thank me for, if ever they knew how you came by enough reikmarks to pay off your substantial debts.’ A heavy bag materialised in the thing’s hand. It clinked when he set it down on the bed next to Garr.

‘This is half. You get the rest after the match.’

‘What do you want from me, trickssster?’ Garr hissed, clutching his scaled limb. ‘What’s the catch?’

‘What indeed, Mister Greyg,’ said Squimper, leaning in closer, his stench overwhelming. ‘I will make you s-stronger, faster, fitter, and wipe your debts. But you must d-do something for me too.’

The stadium hadn’t been filled since the Nordlanders’ relegation, three seasons earlier. Now it was packed to its old timber rafters, filled up with every conceivable creature. Halflings and elves, greenskins, humans and twitching, shade-wearing vampires, drawn like buzzwings to Bloodweiser by the alluring promise of violence both on and off the pitch. The Thunderdome was thundering, and the Thunderbolt was ready to strike.

Garr approached the centre point of the scrimmage line. He was vaguely aware of a vicious catfight breaking out on the sidelines between the Nordlander cheerleading team and the ridiculous, silk-ribbon-draped gobbos the East End Boyz counted as their own cheerleader squad. Garr ignored the shrill ruckus, eyes deliberately fixed not on the crowd, but on the towering greenskin coming to meet him.

He didn’t remember Mister Squimper leaving after his nocturnal appearance, but he’d woken the next morning feeling more in shape than he had since the relegation, three years earlier. He’d spotted the strange white-clad figure again in the crowds during warm-up, deliberately seated near the dugout barricades. The sorcerer’s gaze was making the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle.

The vampiric attention of Grizmund was just as discomfiting. Nog had taken delivery of a letter from the bloodsucker that morning informing him, in no uncertain terms, that unless his debts were paid within the next day there would be a knock on his door. Winning the promotion prize pot would go a good way to paying off the debts, but he’d still fall a little short. And Mister Squimper knew it.

Off-pitch worries took a back seat as a shadow fell across him. He’d reached the halfway line, and so had Krapnugg. The huge, one-eyed captain of the East End Boyz leered down at the human blitzer, green-and-white scrap armour glinting, stinking of stale sweat, raw hides and fungus beer. Garr felt an upsurge of revulsion as he squared up to his team’s most bitter rival. The elf refereeing the match kept his distance, clearly disgusted by both the human and the orc.

‘Thundaboy, ya git,’ Krapnugg growled. ‘I heard you woz done for.’

‘And I heard the Rangers are today’s odds-on favourites with the betting scribess,’ Garr croaked back.

‘Dat’s good you’s fit for da game den. I gets to be da one who krumps ya good.’

‘The only things getting krumped today are your team’s promotion hopes, funguss-ball.’

Krapnugg hawked and spat a wad of green phlegm at Garr’s boots. ‘We do da talking on da pitch, Thundaboy. I’ll see you in da scrum.’

‘Gentlemen,’ the elf said, investing the word with every ounce of scorn he could muster. ‘Orcs or eagles?’

‘Orcs,’ Krapnugg bellowed, beating one great, green fist against his scarred breastplate. Garr nodded, not flinching away from the hate-filled gaze of the rival captain.

With a delicate flick, the elf sent a reikmark skyward. Garr glanced into the braying crowd, at where Mister Squimper was seated. He saw the cloaked figure make a brief chopping motion, unnoticed by the manic spectators surrounding him. The coin landed on the elf’s outstretched palm and he slapped it down on his slender forearm.

‘Orcs,’ he announced. ‘The greenskins have it.’

Krapnugg bared his tusks in what approximated a vicious grin. ‘See you in ’ell, thunda-cripple,’ he grunted. Garr said nothing. Unnoticed by the roaring crowds, a shiver ran up his spine.

It was game on.

Kickoff. There was nothing in the world Garr loved more. The roaring of the crowd had reached a frenzied crescendo, the noise setting the great stands of the rickety stadium quivering. Humans, ratmen, elves, greenskins and more, it was a sell-out. The only creatures who seemed absent in any numbers were the dwarfs – likely fans of Longbeard MineCorps were still licking their wounds after defeat to the East End Boyz in the previous playoff.

Out on the pitch both sides had taken up their starting positions. The Boyz had opted for their usual aggressive set-up, the leading edge of their offensive box formation commanded by the grey-scaled river troll that also passed as their hideous, leering mascot. The stink of rotting fish was reaching Garr, even from the far side of the pitch. It only made his stomach-churning discomfort worse.

This was not how he had seen the final playing out. He could take no pleasure from the hype of the crowd or the burning expectation of the rest of the team. Normally such things would have carried him to heady, adrenaline-fogged heights moments before the first blow of the whistle, but not today. Today was different. Today was a nightmare.

At least his body was ready for it. He put pressure on his scaled limb once more, feeling it take the weight easily. Rife had modified his strip so the freakish replacement was hidden, though the sensation of his scales grating against his clothes sent a shiver down his spine. He flexed, settled a shoulder-plate, gave his helmet a smack with a gauntlet. Instinctive revulsion aside, the leg was fine. He felt like he could blitz his way through every hoop-striped East End greenskin on the pitch, one after the other. Whatever Squimper was doing to him, it was working.

And that was just the problem.

It started to rain, fat, stinging droplets pinging from armour plates and turning the turf sodden. The sky had changed to a leaden grey. The crowd seemed to enjoy the worsening deluge, their demented shrieking reaching new heights. In fairness, it was probably the first wash most of them had enjoyed for months.

Distant thunder rumbled. Garr tried to decide if it was a good omen or not. The elf raised his hand, chiselled features riven with discomfort as the rain plastered his long, blond locks. He dropped his arm and blew the whistle.

Game on.

‘Keep closse,’ Garr hissed across to Gruber as he went forward. He didn’t want the younger blitzer running away with all the glory. At least his leg responded perfectly. He felt young, he felt strong, but, for the first time in his life, seeing a green wall pounding towards him through the lashing rain, his heart quailed. It was a lie, and he knew it.

The East End Boyz were playing the Rangers at their own game – driving straight down the middle. Their troll was on a collision course with Dumpf, Krapnugg himself sprinting in the lumbering creature’s path after having scooped the ball up under one trunk-like arm. The team’s gobbo runners were attempting to slip either side down the wide zones. There was a reason the East End Boyz had vanquished their other great rivals, the dwarfs of the Longbeard MineCorps, to reach the playoffs – for a greenskin team, they were disciplined, and they knew their game plan.

Garr found his stride, and a surge of determination filled him. Disciplined or not, they were still going down. There was no way the Rangers were going to lose their promotion bid this season. Win this game and they were going back up to the Majors. The team deserved it, and he needed it.

He hit the first orc full tilt. The greenskin was big, but Garr had learned how to take them out a long time ago. His right shoulder hit it in the stomach, his momentum deliberately driving him beneath its centre of gravity. It absorbed his charge with a grunt, its stinking, slab-like bulk forced back a step. Garr converted his forward drive into an upward thrust, pushing hard into the greenskin’s chest as it attempted to wrap its trunk-like arms around him. The move sent it toppling, flailing for purchase as it slammed into the dirt. It tried to snatch at Garr’s ankle, but he was still going forward, the front line defence pierced.

There was an audible crash as the rest of the two teams collided. Dumpf and the river troll hit with a crack that made the crowd gasp.

Garr looked left as he sprinted. Gruber had gone, taken down by a greenskin blocker.

‘Vulf!’ he bellowed, gesticulating at the end zone. Despite Gruber’s holdup, the catcher had made it through and was making his run towards the Boyz backline.

‘On it, boss!’ Vulf shouted as he cut right across the pitch, into Garr’s throwing arc. The blitzer wound up but, even as he prepared to throw, his eyes locked on the crowd, and the figure of Squimper. The sorcerer had risen, and had one crooked hand outstretched, a finger pointing directly at him from across the stands. Garr felt his blood run cold. A second later his right thigh twitched. He stumbled, sudden panic filling his thoughts. Squimper lowered his arm, and the pain went away.

‘Garr!’

The shout, from Torvern, came too late. The split-second distraction had given a black orc blocker enough time to close with Garr. It hit him from the right, all snorting violence, scarred muscles and glaring, piggy red eyes. Garr knew better than to try and resist the brute’s momentum – he let it take him down, hit the sodden turf, rolled with the impact. He was back on his feet again in a few seconds, fast and strong, body infused with an unnatural vitality.

He could do this. He knew exactly what he had to do – make sure the Nordland Rangers lost their playoff final to the East End Boyz.

Mister Squimper was the fixer, the mysterious charlatan who’d seemingly got to almost every single coach or star player in the Championship. He’d told Garr as much, as the blitzer lay with one hand on his new, unnatural, pain-infused limb. The exact nature of the scam wasn’t clear, but the falsetto wizard had made one thing plain enough – if Garr botched his game plan and gave the East End Boyz the win, Squimper would provide just enough reikmarks to pay off his debts. If he played to the best of his abilities, the papers would discover the freakish surgery Frisk had performed. Even if the Nordlanders won, such a scandal would see their prize money taken and Garr’s career ruined. And then Grizmund and his thralls would come for him in the dead of the night.

Such a reality left Garr feeling cold. But betraying the Nordlanders was easier said than done. Just seeing Krapnugg and his crew of green beasts on the pitch filled Garr with determination. It had overcome him earlier. Squimper was making clear what would happen if his instincts won out again. When the black orc took him down, he stayed down.

The greenskins won the first touchdown, punching their way to the end zone in season-record-breaking time. They won the second too, and the third. Garr found himself sprawled in the churning muck twice, once from the fist of a lumbering orc lineman, another time dragged down by a trio of bickering goblins. The move was a blatant foul, but the elf was far too busy lamenting his wet hair to care. Garr beat the goblins off with a snarl of pure frustration, but by the time he’d extricated himself the half-time whistle had sounded.

It wasn’t going at all to plan for the Rangers, which meant it was going perfectly to plan for Garr. Or more accurately, for Mister Squimper.

If anything, it was a surprise the fixing had taken so long to reach the Nordlanders. The bag stuffed with reikmarks left lying on Garr’s bed had amounted to exactly half the debts he owed Grizmund. The other half would see him in the clear. The damp stones and rusting grates of the debtors’ prison seemed like a distant nightmare. The threat of tabloid scandals and emergency conferences seemed forgotten. Maybe his star playing career wouldn’t crash and burn after all. Maybe, unlike so many before, he’d found a way to escape what had started to feel like inevitability. He just had to cheat. Worse, he just had to lose.

‘What in the name of Nuffle’s throwing arm is going on out there?’ demanded Rife during half-time. ‘Any explanations?’

Nobody answered. Everyone was drenched, bruised, and at least half the team were openly glaring at Garr. He kept his own gaze fixed on Rife, who in turn refused to meet his eye. It was obvious – the coach didn’t have the guts to call out his star player on all the blatant mistakes he was making. The coach’s plethora of feathers were drooping and sodden, and there was a look of panic in his eyes as he sought to blame anything and everything other than his pampered blitzer. The realisation made Garr feel even more sick.

‘We’re changing formation,’ Rife said. ‘Trying to match these green bastards head-on isn’t working. Dumpf, you’re going down the right-wing wide zone. Vulf, Muller, make use of any space he creates. On defence we need to watch the goblins more and that big damn fish-troll less. Also, Gustav and Wold, you’re off. I’m bringing on Ulmann and Friedberger. Get our defence firmed up and we can work our way back into this.’

‘What about Garr, coach?’ Vulf ask, not bothering to hide the scorn in his voice. For the first time, Rife looked at Garr.

‘Use your experience,’ he said. ‘And play roamer.’

In other words, just get out of the damned way.

The game changed. For all their ability at playing to a set plan, Krapnugg and his boys proved themselves woefully inflexible when it came to changing tactics. Dumpf punched through the wing defences time and time again, while the addition of two fresh, determined blockers, Ulmann and Friedberger, helped shore up the defence. After the three-quarter mark the Nordland Rangers had almost managed to drag themselves level. Even the rain had let up, giving way to weak, watery sunlight.

Throughout it all Garr had played in a dream-state, making minimal tackles and going down far too easily. He could feel the crowd’s dismay resonating throughout the stadium. This wasn’t him. It wasn’t how he wanted to be remembered.

But he was afraid. Even as his heart soared at every successful Nordlander touchdown, so his mind quailed at Squimper’s presence. He could imagine the mysterious sorcerer’s dilemma – the Rangers were still competing, but it was through their own grit and determination, and not through their main blitzer’s skills. Gruber was filling in well, winning two touchdowns on the trot. It stung Garr – he still felt strong; Squimper’s charms were holding. But he knew that as soon as he made a point-winning move that could change.

The match ground on. Krapnugg was furious at the change of pace, driving himself from one flank to the other on a personal crusade to regain the initiative. At one point he went toe-to-toe with Dumpf, staving in the ogre’s snot-choked nose before the huge player simply picked him up and flung him. The impact furrowed the double-skull crest painted into the centre line and threw up a great arc of glistening rainwater.

The Boyz brought on fresh black orc blockers, momentarily stymieing the Rangers’ comeback. Rife responded by ordering deliberately brutal tackles on the goblin wingers the Boyz used as their catchers. By the time the whistle blew after a particularly vicious tackle by a black orc on Gruber, both teams were neck and neck on touchdowns. The last, decisive turn of the game started with the ball in the Rangers’ possession.

‘Make or break,’ Rife said as the surviving members of the team huddled up. ‘Dig deep one more time, Rangers. You know what you have to do.’ He looked at Garr as he spoke, holding his gaze properly for the first time since the change of tactics. The blitzer found himself looking away, towards the crowd. Towards Squimper. The sorcerer was perfectly still, head turned towards him, seemingly oblivious to the brawling spectators surrounding him. Garr swallowed and looked back at Rife. The bestial chanting of the East End Boyz, working themselves into one final game-frenzy, rose over the crowd’s tumult.

‘Let’ss play ball,’ Garr said.

The whistle shrilled. The teams launched themselves forward, one last time. The second subbed-on blitzer, Welf, snatched up the ball from the kick-off and threw himself towards the right-side wide zone. The Boyz responded in force. Garr, holding a rear line behind Welf, felt his lizard thigh twinge again. This was it. Break point. He wasn’t going to be allowed to interfere.

But in that moment, seeing his bruised and bloody teammates going forward around him, seeing Dumpf ploughing into a black orc and Torvern dragged down beneath two shrieking gobbos, Garr knew that interfering was exactly what he was going to do.

He was Garr Greyg, the greatest player in Nordlander history. He was going to win this one.

He ran. He ran harder and faster than he ever had before, his new limb powering him forward, spurred by a burst of raw energy that caused the crowd, already ecstatic, to start screaming manically. He was gaining ground on the front line as it continued to struggle with the greenskins, the damp air rent with screams, bellows and crunches. He saw Welf, ahead, try and weave round an orc lineboy, only to collide with something coming the other way – the wall of muscle and rusting green-and-white iron that was Krapnugg.

Welf crumpled. Krapnugg bellowed. The ball rose in the air, its spikes gleaming. Garr lunged. He felt pain sear through his body. But he was laughing, grinning. The ball was in his grip. And he was in Krapnugg’s.

The greenskin snatched him by both shoulder guards as he plucked the tumbling ball from the air. Garr grunted as the pain in his leg returned. Krapnugg laughed, butcher’s breath choking him.

‘Puny lil’ thundaboy. It’s game over.’

Garr said nothing. Teeth gritted, he slammed the ball into Krapnugg’s face. There was a wet thump as one of the spikes punched through the greenskin’s sole eye.

The orc bellowed and let go. Garr found himself falling, the ball still in his hand, Krapnugg’s eyeball impaled on one spike. The pain of his own injuries throbbed through every nerve ending. With the last of his strength, he tossed the ball over Krapnugg’s head. Up, up and over, spinning, to where Vulf was making his run. The last turn, the last point.

The catcher snatched the ball from the air and leapt, green hands grasping impotently at him. With the Cabal Vision feeds flashing around him, he soared into the end zone.

Touchdown. Game over. Victory.

Garr was only vaguely aware of the carnage unfolding around him. He hit the ground hard, vision swimming. His ears were ringing. He managed to get himself up onto his elbows, where he could see the nearest stand. See where Mister Squimper had been. The cloaked figure was moving, stumbling for the exit, even as the rest of the crowd surged past him in the direction of the pitch. He didn’t get far. A big shape rose up from the throng and snatched at the encumbered wizard – Nog the ogre, his blunt features contorted with fury. Garr had told him, in no uncertain terms, that if anything happened to him he was to grab the old man in the white cloak sitting a few rows down.

Except Squimper wasn’t an old man at all. As Nog lunged the cloak came away, pulled apart by the frantic activity within. Two shapes burst out – hunched, scrabbling and grey-furred. They both squeaked shrilly as they were snatched by Nog. Garr suddenly remembered where he’d smelled the supposed old wizard’s stench before. The Burrow Scrapers, before the season split. Ikkit’s Backscratchers, from the lower leagues. The Warpfire Wanderers, from the Chaos Cup. They were skaven – vicious, dirty, cheating ratmen. He should have known from the start they’d be the ones behind the match fixing. They must have been hoarding a small fortune in their burrows.

For a moment Garr, still wracked with pain, wondered where said burrow could be, then realised they’d probably never find out where when Nog, agitated by the ratmen’s wriggling and scratching, brought both their horned heads together with all his considerable strength. There was a gristly crack, audible even over the berserk crowd. Garr slumped back, drained and barely conscious.

That was when the dugouts exploded. The dwarfs of Longbeard MineCorps had been waiting almost two weeks to get revenge on the greenskins that had knocked them out of the playoffs. Nor had they been idly passing their time – for days the hardy stunties must have been mining a tunnel from the nearest brewery basement to the underbelly of the Thunderdome. Once they were underneath the opposition dugout, they’d packed their excavation with every barrel of gunpowder their illicit Bugman knockoffs could buy.

The few greenskin coaches, backroom staff and substitutes not atomised by the blast immediately launched themselves into Rife and the stunned Nordlander bench beside them. Rife was struck down almost immediately, his feathered cap trampled into the dirt. As the thunderclap echo of the explosion bounced back from the shuddering stadium’s flanks, the spectators took it as the signal for a full-on pitch invasion. Barricades were smashed down, and within seconds the field was playing host to a riot. Above, almost unnoticed, the scoreboard proclaimed victory – and a return to the Majors – for the Rangers.

Gar was dimly aware of Krapnugg stumbling past. The huge greenskin was experiencing the nearest thing to fear his race could ever know – blinded, he was worse than helpless. He was useless. The orc’s single eye was probably still impaled on the ball grasped in Vulf’s hand as he was hoisted by the victorious Nordlanders through the crowd. Garr managed to find the strength to lift his scaled leg as Krapnugg staggered past. The orc tripped and, wailing, slammed face-first into the churned-up dirt that had once been the pitch. Garr, now delirious, realised he was giggling. The leg wasn’t so bad after all. With a bit of training, and a few more stitches, odds were he could make it work.

The prize money combined with the crowns the ratmen had already given him would be enough to placate Grizmund. The fame from that last-gasp promotion win was bound to garner him plenty of marks in publicity tours and autobiography reissues. As he slipped once more into sweet, familiar unconsciousness with a smile on his mud-splattered face, Garr’s last thought was a prayer to Nuffle that he wasn’t about to be trampled to death. That sort of outcome really would have been a fix.

About the Author

Robbie MacNiven is a highland-born History graduate from the University of Edinburgh. His hobbies include reenacting, football and obsessing over Warhammer 40,000. He has written the Deathwatch short story ‘Redblade’, and the Warhammer 40,000 stories ‘A Song for the Lost’ and ‘Blood and Iron’ for Black Library.

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

Published in 2016 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd,
Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.

Fixed © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2016. Fixed, 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.
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ISBN: 978-1-78572-283-7

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