The Clockmaker’s Tale

Just one more fight.’

Rodbul sat in the dim antechamber adjoining the tavern’s main hall, repeating the words to himself over and over. He couldn’t remember how many times he’d already made himself that promise. Among prizefighters, memory was one of the first things to go. The pain of shattered knuckles and torn muscles drove most to drink, swallowing up what money they won between each brutal gladiatorial engagement. Pain and loss – that was the job. He knew it all too well.

Most recently Rodbul had lost an eye. It had been gouged out by his last opponent while they wrestled in some borderland shanty. He hadn’t seen out of that eye in years, but the agony of it being ripped out almost made him faint. Still, he had managed to keep the chokehold on his foe until the man’s desperate thrashing finally stopped. The dozen or so spectators had joked when it was all over that Old Man Rodbul would have to spend all his winnings just to buy himself an eyepatch. But there was one amongst them that did not laugh, a hooded man shrouded in shadow.

As the spectators filtered out, and Rodbul wiped at the blood that was streaming down his face, the hooded man had approached him. He’d flicked a coin to Rodbul, like the patrons and pretty courtiers had done when Rodbul was first starting out. But this coin wasn’t made of Chamonic metal – it was made of black glass.

‘Wager this,’ said the hooded man, ‘and what you earn will last you an eternity.’ By the time Rodbul looked up from the coin, the man had vanished.

After a few short weeks of drinking through his winnings, Rodbul had signed up for one more fight. The bookers didn’t know what to make of the glass coin he had handed them, but their narrowed eyes relaxed when he’d told them he was betting it on himself. Considering the state he was in, they didn’t expect to pay anything out.

The bet was taken and Rodbul was shown to the antechamber. He was told his fight would be second, after a pair of captured grots fought a one-axe handicap.

A roar of laughter followed by the thud-thud-thud of drunkards banging on tables told Rodbul that the grot fight was over. Then he heard a heavy iron key slotting into the lock of the antechamber’s door. There was no turning back now.

‘Just one more fight.’

The door swung open and a portly bouncer beckoned.

‘You’re up, One-eye.’

Rodbul walked out into the main hall and looked upon his final audience. They seemed about the same as every other crowd – ruddy noses and rotting teeth, each face as indistinct as the next. There were about thirty all told, not including bookers and bouncers. More than most get for their finale.

Another door opened with a clack, and Rodbul turned to see his opponent striding across the pig iron floor. He was twice the size of Rodbul and half the age, his broad chest bared and mouth curved into a sardonic grin. The crowd hushed in anticipation – they were expecting a swift and brutal show.

A hammer struck an anvil somewhere behind Rodbul, signalling the start of the fight. His opponent thrust a foot out towards him with blinding speed, but Rodbul leaned sideways just in time to avoid being kicked across the room. He shifted his weight and launched a well-practised jab. His opponent swatted the fist aside, but Rodbul was already following up with a brutal hook. He caught the larger man square in the temple, causing him to stumble backwards. Gasps from the crowd told Rodbul that many were starting to rethink their wagers.

Rodbul stepped toward his reeling foe and lifted a knee into the man’s gut, following it with an uppercut to the chin and another hook to the side of his jaw. There was a crack of breaking teeth and knuckles, but Rodbul didn’t feel any pain – odd, he thought.

The crowd were booing loudly now, but Rodbul ignored them. His opponent was on one knee, with blood and bits of tooth dripping from his mouth. It was time to finish the job. With his remaining eye, Rodbul lined up the weak spot on the man’s neck, the point that snapped easily, and swung an elbow down towards it.

But before Rodbul could land the killing blow the kneeling man launched himself upwards, thrusting his forehead into Rodbul’s nose. Rodbul’s body went limp. He felt the familiar warmth of his own blood streaming down his face, then felt his opponent’s massive fingers wrapping around his neck. The fingers squeezed in like iron rods, crushing Rodbul’s windpipe, but still he felt no pain. He could see his wild-eyed opponent before him, a look of frenzied pleasure on the man’s face as he crushed the life out of another living being. After a loud crack, the man let go.

Something made a thud as it hit the floor. Rodbul looked down and saw his own unmoving body lying there, neck twisted horrendously and eyes glazed over. Confused, Rodbul turned back to his opponent. He saw in the man’s eyes a look of abject terror, and heard a panicked din spreading through the tavern. Those in attendance were unsheathing daggers and dirks and shouting in startled disbelief.

‘Geist! Geist!’

There was only one onlooker who remained calm – a hooded man who emerged from the shadows. He stepped unseen through the crowd of frightened men, past Rodbul’s trembling opponent, and spoke.

‘There is just one more fight Rodbul. It is against the living.’

These words penetrated Rodbul’s mind, filling his soul until he could hear nothing else. The pain of his battered body was gone, the memories of his tattered life were no more – all that remained was that same echoing phrase.

‘Just one more fight.’

Rodbul raised his spectral claws, and lunged towards his living prey.

PRODUCED BY GAMES WORKSHOP IN NOTTINGHAM

Rodbul’s Last Fight © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. Rodbul’s Last Fight, Malign Portents, GW, Games Workshop, Warhammer, 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.

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