Contents

Cover

Pride and Penitence – Alec Worley

About the Author

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Pride and Penitence

by Alec Worley

Dolph Gutmann, coach of the Bright Crusaders, gazed at the gnawed and splintered bones piled in the wheelbarrow before him. His eager young assistant, Tomas, beamed as though he were presenting his employer with a wheelbarrow full of birthday cake and not the mortal remains of lynchpin player Ulrich the Virtuous.

‘The skaven said we should get the head back before the end of the game,’ said the boy, eyes wide with enthusiasm. ‘Rat-ogres have a terribly efficient digestive system, apparently.’

Dolph gave a brittle smile. ‘Can this wait? I’m in the middle of a pep talk…’

Tomas gazed round at the surviving members of the Bright Crusaders, all eight of them. They were seated in a semi-circle, mesmerised by the contents of the wheelbarrow, their faces contorting as if in competition to see who could strike the most horrified expression.

Dolph ushered his assistant from the locker room, kicked a chewed femur out of sight and clapped his hands, as if about to introduce a fun new activity to a class full of schoolchildren. He winced as Tomas hissed at him from the doorway.

‘Sorry, coach. Shall I put this lot with the others?’

Anger was something of a foreign language to Dolph. His first season as coach of the Bright Crusaders had given him plenty of opportunity to become fluent, but the only expression of rage he could seem to master was a steady throb in his temple and a growing collection of stomach ulcers.

‘If you could, that would be lovely,’ said Dolph, his voice trembling with restraint. Tomas disappeared with a whistle so cheerful that it made Dolph’s eyelids twitch.

It was this eerie patience that had not only earned Dolph his nickname – ‘the Saint’ – but also served him well during his own time as a star thrower for the team. Despite serving for eight long, silverware-free years, Dolph remained proud to serve the Bright Crusaders, a team famous for its devotion to the virtues of sportsmanship, which included a problematic contempt for cheating of any kind.

He regarded what was left of his beloved team, most of them now blinking up at him like a basket full of pigeons curious to know whether the cook was going to serve them roasted on a stick or baked in a pie. Had he pushed them too hard during training? Were they overawed by the importance of the event? This was the Purity Cup Final, after all, the Crusaders’ first shot at a major trophy in years, a chance to stop everyone from sniggering at the mention of the team’s name, a chance to prove that good guys could finish first for once.

Dolph returned his players’ attention to the tactics chalked on the board beside him, rebuilding his expression into something resembling an encouraging smile as he outlined the plays for the second half against the Doomtown Rats. He praised the valour of his blitzers in breaking the skaven line and enabling the Crusaders’ first two touchdowns, applauded the fortitude of his linemen for holding back the skaven’s persistent offence, and commended the thrower for not sobbing too loudly at the sight of Skrut Manpeeler, the skaven’s marauding rat-ogre, disembowelling his third Crusader player in a row. That last casualty had allowed one of the skaven gutter runners to scurry into the Crusaders’ end zone to score a touchdown for the Rats seconds before the half-time whistle blew.

Facing a tenuous two-one lead, Dolph marvelled at the lunacy of his own optimism as he tried to reassure his team that all would not be lost in the second half so long as they maintained a strong defence. His assertions inspired nothing but a surge of protests.

‘They have a twelve-foot monstrosity that eats every player who tries to mark it,’ said Klaus the Forthright.

‘Those gutter runners are going to have a field day now there’s only eight of us,’ said Hans the Doubtful.

‘At least they haven’t bribed the referee,’ said Dieter the Naive.

Dolph nudged the team’s bard, who quickly struck a heartening chord on his lute, silencing the quarrelling players long enough for Dolph to cut in, his voice firm with conviction.

‘Our passing game has been the best in this competition,’ he said. ‘Have you forgotten what we did to the elves? Every one of you is skilled enough to be worth two skaven players. If you ask me, it’s us who outnumber them.’

The bard’s fingers galloped over his lute-strings, his soaring melody evoking all the romance of valour in the face of uncertain odds.

‘They’re weak,’ Dolph continued. ‘They’re worse at dodging than you think and their co-ordination is pitiful. They don’t work as a team. Whereas we stand united, armed with faith and decency. We face the impossible as we have always done. Do we not strive to honour the sacred code of fair conduct in a sport lost to madness? Is this not victory enough? Is this not who we are?’

Dolph’s heart soared at the sight of his players nodding in agreement, joining hands in a gesture of unity, the bard’s heroic air rousing them to righteous war.

A bell clanged in the corridor outside, summoning both teams to the players’ tunnel for the second half.

‘Who are we?’ demanded Dolph.

The players would have roared back, ‘We are the Bright Crusaders!’, only the hulking blitzer responsible for their first touchdown had sprung to his feet.

Gerhardt the Penitent.

The vein in Dolph’s temple began throbbing, his eyelids fluttering like they were trying to escape from his face.

‘I understand, Coach Gutmann,’ said Gerhardt, his face enraptured as though receiving private instruction from Sigmar Himself. ‘You’re saying we have an unfair advantage!’

Before Dolph could correct him, Gerhardt dropped his trousers.

The coach and the other players gazed in horrified awe as Gerhardt struggled to untie his bootlaces, hopping around the locker room like a half-naked ogre on a pogo-stick.

It wasn’t the strangest thing Gerhardt the Penitent had done since joining the Bright Crusaders last season. He had set fire to himself during that qualifier against the Athelorn Avengers. Then there was the time he insisted on playing while lying on a bed of nails. Or the time he had apologised for an expert tackle on a kroxigor by spending the rest of the game trying to kick himself into the nearest end zone.

‘I shall play without armour,’ he bellowed, shrugging off his spiked shoulder-pads and tearing off his vestment. ‘I shall bear no unjust advantage, for a victory won unfairly is no victory at all!’

During an interview with Spike! magazine, Dolph had been sincere when he described Gerhardt’s arrival as a ‘blessing’. He had scored four touchdowns in his debut match against the Khazad Steelers and was probably the only rookie Dolph had ever seen who could listen to the threats of a rabid Trollslayer without soiling himself. The man had all the makings of a legendary blitzer, as strong as an ogre, as quick as an elf and regarded pain as an interesting theory he might be lucky enough to one day understand. But it soon transpired that Gerhardt’s physical gifts were tempered by a moral outlook that was severe even by the impeccable standards of the Bright Crusaders.

It turned out Gerhardt was an ex-monk from St Apologia of the Immaculate Piety, a cult of flagellants who believed that only through constant hardship and penitence could one achieve true enlightenment. The monks wore nothing but fleas, lived on a diet of their own tears, and slept on beds of gravel, but only if they’d run out of hedgehogs.

Gerhardt the Penitent now bared himself before his teammates, surrounded by torn clothes and discarded armour, announcing his readiness to return to the pitch by snapping the waistband of whatever meagre rag it was he was trying to pass off as a loincloth.

The bell outside rang again, more urgently this time.

‘Gerhardt,’ said Dolph, urging the other players to remain seated. ‘We agreed that you would no longer carry out acts of penitence on the pitch. The fact that you’ve managed to abstain from doing so all season is the reason we’ve been able to get this far in the competition, yes?’

A pair of familiar shadows materialised behind Gerhardt. Dolph had regretted allowing the blitzer to hire a pair of dark elf ‘trainers’ (their business card had read ‘Freelance Sadists’), but Gerhardt had insisted that he would need help in maintaining an acceptable level of personal contrition if he was no longer allowed to debase himself in public. Last week they had helped Gerhardt bury himself during training and it had taken the groundskeeper hours to find him again.

‘Yes,’ said Gerhardt, inspired as the dark elves whispered in his ear. ‘I have abstained from penance for too long. I must atone for the arrogance of our previous triumphs.’

One of the linemen was now sobbing.

The bell rang a third time and Dolph took a deep breath, struggling to dispel the image of his own hands garrotting Gerhardt with a loincloth.

‘What about Sister Bertilda and the orphans?’ he said, snatching a sheaf of letters pinned to the team’s portable shrine. Gerhardt looked bewildered. He’d become even more forgetful since he’d ordered those dark elves to break things over his head during morning prayer.

Dolph rifled through the letters, pausing now and then to read aloud.

‘“Dear Gerhardt”,’ he read. ‘“We are eternally grateful for your assistance.”’

Another letter: ‘“The children see you as an inspiration. Without your help we would be forced to sell them all for wizarding experiments.”’

Yet another: ‘“Sir, we beseech you, in Shallya’s name, do all you can to help your team achieve victory on the day of the final.”’

Gerhardt examined a child’s sketch, charcoal scribbled on parchment, of a robed stick-figure and her tiny charges celebrating as a hulking figure covered in spikes trampled through a scrawl of dismembered limbs. The blitzer turned to his teammates, hoping they might offer him a further clue.

‘We pledged to buy her orphanage with our winnings,’ said Felix the Chaste. ‘If we win we’ll be saving her and a hundred orphans from eviction. They’re the reason you promised to stop sabotaging every game!’

Gerhardt’s face suddenly brightened with recognition, then darkened with what Dolph desperately hoped was sensible thought.

‘Those orphans need you, Gerhardt,’ he said. ‘We need you. Your strength, not your devotions. Just for one game more.’

The other players had already gathered up Gerhardt’s discarded armour. They offered it to him in unison, nervously, like devotees hoping to placate a volcano god who was just looking for an excuse to smite something. Gerhardt returned their gaze with a troubled look.

‘It is no small thing you ask of me, brothers,’ he said, wrinkling his nose at their offering. ‘Our victories have afforded us some of the finest armour money can buy. We wore no such finery when we were losing games with blessed humility. I fear it is a symbol of our vanity.’

Dolph saw the other players glance at each other, perhaps wondering if there was anything in the Crusaders’ code of ethics that might excuse the murder of a teammate.

‘If I wear this armour,’ said Gerhardt, ‘if we win this game, then you must agree, all of you, to join me in an act of penitence, only this can assure the virtue of the Bright Crusaders as we claim that trophy.’

Dolph and the other players almost mobbed him with relief.

‘Anything, for the love of Nuffle. Anything! Just get us that win!’ cried the coach. The other players nodded in agreement.

Gerhardt’s smile became a roar. ‘Who are we?’

Dolph and the other players would have roared back, ‘We are the Bright Crusaders!’ only there came an urgent knock at the door. It was Tomas.

‘The bad news is the referee is threatening to penalise us if we don’t hurry up,’ he said, then produced a sack that reeked worse than the stadium outhouse. ‘The good news is I managed to get Ulrich’s head back.’

‘I wish I could have been a fly on the wall of the Crusaders’ dressing room, Jim.’

‘I know a wizard who could arrange that, Bob.’

‘What I want to know is how the Crusaders plan to stop a full team of some of the best runners in the game from getting through their lines when they’ve only got seven and a half men.’

‘Seven and a half, Bob? I count eight. Is someone missing a limb?’

‘I’m talking about Gerhardt the Penitent, Jim. He’s certainly not the most reliable player. Do you remember how he apologised for that touchdown against the Iron Tusks by trying to saw off his own leg?’

‘That was a while ago, Bob. In this tournament, he’s been downright boring. No stopping in the middle of the game to pray to the ball, no covering himself in leeches, no chaining himself to a rock.’

‘But will he be able to stay focused enough to help the Crusaders secure their lead? I mean, this could be the game that saves these goody-goodies from being a permanent laughing stock.’

‘Well, we’re about to find out, Bob. The players are back on the pitch, and there’s Gerhardt. He looks focused enough, but who’s that he’s waving to in the crowd?’

Gerhardt could just make out Sister Bertilda waving at him from among the seething wall of fans to his left. She was cocooned inside the humble grey habit of a priestess of Shallya, her face a perfect oval as she waved her handkerchief. He fancied that she resembled a courtly lady granting favour to her champion, although he knew she was just as likely trying to wave away the stench of ale and vomit that permeated both the stands and the majority of the other fans. The group of orphans under her charge jumped up and down behind the advertising boards in a frenzy of excitement, swathed in tattered scarves with adorably oversized caps askew on their heads as they waved their crutches or rapped spoons upon their gruel bowls.

But the sight of those he had promised to save did little to ease Gerhardt’s nagging conscience. He had struggled all season to control his addiction to repentance, to stop himself from whispering the Crusaders’ tactics to the opposition players and applauding their bootwork when they fouled him. Gerhardt’s conscience haunted him like a ghost that had nothing better to do, urging to him to repent, always to repent. If only Coach Gutmann knew how close Gerhardt had come to firing himself out of that confetti cannon at half-time.

He wiped away another rivulet of drool oozing from the brow of his helmet and looked up into a pair of glowing green eyes. They glared down at him like emerald fires above a snout wrinkled with fury. Skrut Manpeeler was a festering tower of muscle, claws and whiskers, a rat-ogre stitched together by some demented skaven alchemist for reasons beyond the grasp of human sanity. Like the rest of its rancid species, the monster stank like it was really putting in the effort, its chest heaving with rapid rasping breaths that fanned Gerhardt’s face with an aroma somewhere between ‘cesspit’ and ‘something that had smelled pretty bad even before it was found dead in the gutters behind a harbour tavern on a hot day’.

The other skaven players had assumed a strong offensive formation beside this monstrosity. The ratmen were hunched, as if barely evolved from scurrying through sewers on all fours. Their clawed hands pawed restlessly at the ground, snouts twitching, bodies encased in armour or draped in rags, both the colour of luminous mould. Those standing beside Skrut snickered to themselves, relishing not only the power of their monstrous teammate, but also the vulnerability of the diminished opposition. It took all of Gerhardt’s internal resolve to stop himself from wishing them all good luck.

The whistle caught Gerhardt by surprise, the crowd surging with a tidal roar as the ball sailed overhead into the skaven half. Then it happened. It always did. While all eyes were focused on the trajectory of the ball, one or several members of the crowd would take it upon themselves to start a fight, assassinate the referee, or attempt to burn down the stadium.

This time a skaven fan had taken the opportunity to launch something at one of the Crusaders’ players. Blood Bowl fans were extraordinarily inventive when it came to selecting things to hurl at the players. Gerhardt had seen everything from rotten fruit and startled livestock to halfling snack vendors and all manner of homemade contraptions that ticked or sizzled for a few seconds before exploding. He was almost disappointed to see that today’s missile was merely a rock.

It descended almost lazily, like a perfectly placed pass, towards the head of Felix the Chaste. The catcher was busy studying the skaven lines, no doubt calculating how best not to die during the second half of the game. Gerhardt couldn’t recall telling his legs to start moving. All he knew was that he felt overwhelmed by a familiar sense of need. He was sprinting towards Felix, his eyes fixed on the hurtling rock. He’d been so good all season. He’d agreed to wear his armour. Wasn’t that enough? Surely Coach Gutmann would allow him just one bit of penance, just a smidge. It was only a little rock after all. He heard Felix cry out in alarm seconds before Gerhardt shoved him aside, sprang into the air and caught the rock square between the eyes.

Gerhardt picked himself up, helped a shaken Felix to his feet, then gave everyone else a thumbs-up before promptly keeling over. Coach Gutmann suddenly appeared at his side trying to explain something to him while the apothecary asked Gerhardt to count how many fingers he was holding up, which – in all fairness – would have been a tough one for the blitzer even without the concussion. Gerhardt pushed them all aside and jogged back into position, burbling something about a rainbow stealing his unicorn.

The whistle blew, activating some kind of switch in the rat-ogre’s fevered brain, one that sent it from ‘unnerving stillness’ to ‘berserk rage’ in a millisecond. The monster fell upon Gerhardt, eyes blazing green, huge claws raking the air with terrifying speed, ripping at the turf as the blitzer staggered backwards, still trying to shake away the buzzing in his skull.

Gerhardt glimpsed downfield as the skaven thrower scooped up the ball in its claws, its teammates bounding towards the Crusaders like an armoured tide. The creatures seemed to multiply as they ran, fanning out across Gerhardt’s blurred vision in twos or threes until the pitch appeared overrun.

The rat-ogre attacked with the persistence of a machine, gurgling with exertion, its jaws awash with foam, claws flashing as it sought to pin its prey, like a cat trying to trap a mouse that didn’t have the sense to run away. Gerhardt caught something in his peripheral vision. He turned instinctively as he brought his spiked kneepad up into the face of a skaven lineman diving at his legs. The blow collapsed the creature’s snout with a sound like a warhammer hitting a basket of eggs. The skaven crumpled to the ground with a congested squeak. The rat-ogre’s gauntlet came down, slashing a line down Gerhardt’s arm, forcing him further back.

As he retreated, Gerhardt could see the stormvermin blitzers clashing with a pair of stout Crusader linemen as two more skaven players scurried past them, streaming like foetid water across the grass into the Crusaders’ half.

Gerhardt took the searing pain in his arm under advisement as the rat-ogre’s claws streaked down yet again, plunging deep into the turf. He drove his studded boot down onto the back of the monster’s hand, pinning its rooted fingers. Sensing the monster’s snout had been lowered to punching level, Gerhardt swung his gauntleted fist into its lower jaw, slamming it aside like a door through which someone had just made a dramatic entrance. But the rat-ogre was too consumed by its frenzy to care and went to plunge its sickly yellow incisors into Gerhardt’s throat.

The blitzer seized the chisel-like teeth near the gum, gripping them in his armoured hand as he struggled to hold the monster’s thrashing head at bay, still pinning its fingers beneath his boot. Gerhardt felt the other set of claws grasping his body. He grabbed two long fingers before they could close around him, twisting them aside with a crack as he drove his weight forward, pressing his face into Manpeeler’s greasy, reeking fur. He shouldered spikes deep into its belly, forcing it off-balance, almost toppling the rat-ogre onto its back. As he grappled with the squirming giant, blood streaming from the gash in his arm, every muscle in his body straining to subdue the murderous fury before him, Gerhardt could hear his conscience tutting, disappointed that he couldn’t have done more to give the poor beast a sporting chance.

A Gutter Runner streaked past him. Gerhardt sensed it moving into the space behind him and knew it would wait there to receive the ball. The skaven thrower was still downfield, sniffing its way left and right, the ball clutched tight in the crook of its scrawny arm as it sought the safest passage through the Crusaders’ line. Gerhardt’s teammates seemed to be drowning in a sea of verminous bodies either side of him, fending off claws and teeth as the frantic skaven struggled to drag the men to the ground.

Gerhardt felt the rat-ogre rip its claws out from beneath his boot as it twisted itself free of his grip. He braced himself to receive its next attack, but the monster only snarled at him, pounding the turf like an angry gorilla demanding to know who ate the last banana. It hissed at the surrounding fans, surrendering momentarily to its feral nature, finally giving up its feeble attempt at restraint as a thoroughly bad job.

The Crusaders’ fans cheered with renewed vigour as the justly named blitzer Jurgen the Upright crashed through a wall of skaven and charged at their exposed ball-carrier like a maddened bull. The thrower froze as Jurgen dived at him, but somehow managed to slip from between his hands like a revoltingly hairy bar of soap. It scampered away, leaving the blitzer to perform the even more impressive feat of using his face to plough through several yards of turf.

Manpeeler seemed to have forgotten Gerhardt was there. The blitzer sensed another accurate strike at its broken jaw could see the creature stretchered off the field, but that thrower was streaking towards a gap where several Crusaders lay sprawled.

Gerhardt left the rat-ogre to snarl at the crowd, leaping over its tail as it wriggled after him like a questing tentacle. As he ran, he focused on the ball cradled in the arms of the skaven thrower, visualising himself stripping it from Manpeeler’s grasp and tossing it into the hands of Felix the Chaste, who now sprinted alongside him towards the skaven end zone.

The skaven thrower had seen them. It was flinching in a zig-zag, trying to distract Gerhardt as he bore down on it like a meteorite. The skaven’s wriggling course made Gerhardt feel suddenly seasick. His skull buzzed and his vision blurred once again. The skaven shimmered into triplets. Gerhardt squinted as he picked one, then snatched the ball.

He seized the blurred oblong and tore it from the skaven’s grip, tossing it without thinking into the waiting mitts of the catcher beside him. Felix gave a strangled yelp, letting the thing bounce between in his hands as if it were red-hot, before finally dropping it on the grass. Gerhardt peered down at the ball, his head spinning, dimly wondering why the referee hadn’t blown the whistle for a fumble and why the ball appeared to possess whiskers and a startled expression.

He turned and saw the headless body of the skaven thrower stumble several more paces before collapsing, releasing the ball into the paws of the waiting gutter runner. Gerhardt could have sworn the foul creature winked at him before scuttling past a lonely Crusaders lineman and into the end zone to score.

The referee blew the whistle and the skaven fans erupted into a squall of delighted squeaks, a sound that made Gerhardt’s battered brain feel like it was being nibbled. The screen of the Cabaltron mounted above the players’ tunnel filled with the image of the gutter runner gyrating in a manner that was as enthusiastic as it was horrifying.

Gerhardt clutched his head, trying to stop the stadium from whirling around him as he scanned the stands for Sister Bertilda. His vision cleared, but his heart clouded at the sight of the priestess sobbing into her habit.

‘And there’s the equaliser, Jim.’

‘And there’s Gerhardt looking very unhappy for failing to pick up that ball. He’s not going to make that concussion any better by beating his head on the ground like that.’

‘I’ve never seen the Crusaders so demoralised. They’re not even applauding the other team’s touchdown.’

‘I doubt the odds of their winning this final will do much to raise their spirits either, Bob. The Crusaders may have the skill, but I’m afraid the Rats have the numbers.’

‘That reminds me, Jim. Did you know a ratman can squeeze through a hole the size of a gold piece?’

‘Is that so?’

‘Yep. Kweequik the Kontorted of the Skavenblight Scramblers once proved it by squeezing his entire body inside a football. He would live to see his name in the record books too, if the team’s rat-ogre hadn’t used the ball for kicking practice. Hur! Hur! Hur!’

Those smelling salts had certainly cleared Gerhardt’s head, although the apothecary had been rather short with him for drinking the entire bottle. At least the number of opponents he could see now corresponded with the number of opponents actually on the pitch. Not that it made much difference; the skaven still dominated the field with their speed and superior numbers.

The scoreline remained two-two and as the Crusaders concluded what was shaping up to be the final drive of the game, Gerhardt was flailing on the line of scrimmage like a man on fire. Three skaven clawed at his armour, thrashing him with their tails, the urinary stench of their bodies cloying as he fought to shake them off. One of them struggled with his legs, trying to buckle his knees and probably wondering why Gerhardt wasn’t falling over the way most humans did when you gnawed at their hamstrings.

The pain in Gerhardt’s legs was nothing compared to the guilt he felt in his heart. His gluttony for punishment had lost his team the lead, causing him to betray his pledge to help win the game and save Sister Bertilda’s orphanage. Until the priestess had written to him, explaining her desperate plight, Gerhardt had never believed that victory could be more important than humility. He had never before given a thought to how his acts of penitence might serve as anything other than a glorious inspiration to the rest of the team. The other players certainly never did anything to stop him, although Coach Gutmann had once suggested they were just being polite.

The coach himself seemed to take the skaven’s equaliser rather well, although he had done that thing where his eyelids twitched like they were playing ping-pong. As he directed his players back into position, he had given Gerhardt strict instruction to hold the centreline and tie up as many skaven players as possible. But it turned out the skaven were just as intent on tying up Gerhardt, smothering him like a fur coat that had seen better days.

The other Crusaders remained mired in a persistent scrum. White-armoured bodies clashing and knitting shoulder-to-shoulder with the sickly green of the skaven, both sides smearing the bloody grass to mud beneath their feet as they heaved and growled, spiked fists and iron-capped boots striking here and there, attempting to break the deadlock. The Crusaders had formed a cage around the ball-carrier, Felix the Chaste, and were trying to grind their way upfield, but more and more skaven were charging into the fray, inching the Crusaders back.

Gerhardt felt another surge of guilt to know that he was the cause of his team’s plight. He had abstained from penance for so long, his hunger for it had grown so acute, that he had forgotten what Bertilda had taught him: that his actions had consequences for the rest of the team. Now his best chance of rectifying his mistake was to trust Coach Gutmann, who had forbidden him from moving out of position, and made sure that Gerhardt understood this didn’t mean gluing or nailing himself in place.

A filthy pink tail lashed around Gerhardt’s face. He bit down on it without thinking, which was probably just as well. One of the skaven screeched in pain as it leaped from his body as though electrified. Gerhardt grabbed it by the scruff of its neck and hurled the creature to the ground, freeing his hand to tear away the second skaven and fling it on top of the third still clawing at his legs. The creatures squirmed to their feet as Gerhardt staggered back, panting, wondering for the first time in his career whether he might be bleeding too much.

The timer on the Cabaltron was ticking down the final five minutes of the second half, beyond which play would continue into sudden-death overtime. With fresh substitutes and an offensive drive, the nimble ratmen would secure the win for sure.

The three skaven leaped at him with a collective squeal. He crouched as they crashed into him, feeling their spikes clash like swords upon his armoured shoulders. But the dexterous creatures had ducked lower than he anticipated, all three clawing at his legs. As he fought for a stable footing, his boot slithered along a patch of mud and he fell face-first into the muck. His squeaking attackers threw themselves on top of him, pinning his shoulder-pads, making it difficult for him to rise even if one of them wasn’t jumping up and down on the back of his head. Mud oozed like worms up Gerhardt’s nostrils, while his ears filled with squeals of skaven laughter.

The crowd roared and the beating ceased. Gerhardt managed to pull his head up out the mud with a slurp, blinking away the filth to see Jurgen the Upright trample one of the stormvermin underfoot as he raced forward. Felix the Chaste ran after him, head down, clinging to the ball.

The Crusaders’ cage had broken the skaven line, but Skrut Manpeeler had been positioned downfield, ready to welcome any such intruders. Gerhardt could see the feral monster already bounding towards the Crusaders players, its broken jaw wagging, arms flailing excitedly, as if it couldn’t decide which of these two fleshy gifts it wanted to unwrap first.

The goblin referee stood nearby, pretending to examine the hourglass around his neck as the cheating skaven forced Gerhardt to return his attention to the dirt. Gerhardt knew that Jurgen and Felix stood little chance against the ravenous rat-ogre. Guilt weighed upon him as heavily as his own armour, that and the three skaven players currently employing it as a trampoline. If he were to help both his team and Sister Bertilda, and absolve himself of his own sins against them, he would need to go against Coach Gutmann’s instructions and think for himself. Like a spark struck from a tinderbox, three pairs of skaven feet struck an idea from the flint of Gerhardt’s brain.

Still pinned inside his armour, Gerhardt tensed the slabs of muscle across his back, tightening the straps of his shoulder-pads. He felt the buckles snap as the skaven stamped on him again. The creatures were so focused on their efforts to pound Gerhardt’s head into the earth like a tent peg that they failed to notice the blitzer wriggle free of his helmet and shoulder-pads. By the time they realised he had vacated his armour, a shirtless Gerhardt had smashed into their startled midst.

One of them managed to claw at his legs as it was dragged across the grass, pulling what was left of Gerhardt’s britches down to his ankles. A lesser player would have tripped, stumbling over his own drawers, felled like the world’s most undignified tree. But Gerhardt the Penitent instead bounded into the air, kicking off his boots and slipping free of his trousers with the grace of an exotic dancer shedding her final veil.

‘Whoah! It looks like we got a streaker, Jim! I can see the referee calling for his tranquiliser crossbow.’

‘That’s no streaker, Bob! It’s Gerhardt! And he’s snorting mud out of his nostrils as he makes a blistering run down the wide zone towards his teammates!’

Gerhardt saw Jurgen attempt to swerve a flanking tackle from one of the skaven, but the creature caught him around the waist, ramming him towards the fans. A mob of orc hooligans surged forwards to receive him, but threw up their hands in disappointment as Jurgen crashed into the advertising boards. According to a tradition most Blood Bowl officials were too afraid to oppose, any player shoved off the pitch and into the stands was subject to whatever penalty the supporters could think to administer at the time. Luckily for the players, most fans were too dim-witted to think of delivering anything more than a severe beating, although Chaos fans were justly feared for their terrifying creativity.

Undaunted by the loss of his wingman, Felix kept running for the skaven end zone, racing perilously close to the crowds on his left as the rat-ogre charged towards him from the right.

Gerhardt sprinted faster than he thought possible, his bare feet a wondrous blur, gobbling up the distance between himself and the frenzied rat-ogre as it finally pounced upon Felix. The catcher managed to dart backwards and the monster drove a pulverising fist into the turf where he had been standing, forcing Felix back along the advertising boards. The orcs surged forwards in anticipation while Felix stood seemingly transfixed by the sight of the rat-ogre’s gaping jaws.

Gerhardt bore down on Manpeeler, feeling invigorated by the whistling of both the fans and the refreshing breeze rushing through his loincloth. He was thrilled by the thought of meeting his foe on gloriously equal terms, every advantage surrendered, prepared to pit naked skill against raw fury, two forces matched as perfectly as light and dark.

Gerhardt leaped, distracting the rat-ogre as it went to swing its claws at the helpless ball-carrier. The giant’s shining green eyes registered something like confusion seconds before its vision was blotted out by an expanse of forehead that descended into its snout with a symphony of splintering cracks. A number of dwarfs and norsemen in the crowd completely forgot themselves, swooning like schoolgirls in admiration of such a magnificently delivered headbutt, a perfectly placed ‘Khazad kiss’ that shattered the monster’s muzzle, slamming its head backwards, momentum launching its enormous body over the advertising board and dropping it in a dazed heap surrounded by several pairs of orcish boots.

Skrut Manpeeler disappeared beneath a mob of greenskins as Gerhardt regained his senses, making a mental note to ask the apothecary whether he should be concerned that his head now rattled like a moneybox when he shook it. Felix was streaking towards the skaven end zone with two skaven scurrying far behind him as the timer on the Cabaltron winked towards its final zero.

Felix planted the ball over the line a split-second before the whistle blew and the stadium exploded like a volcano full of confetti. Cannons blasted shimmering streamers overhead as Gerhardt watched the scoreboard flip three-two in favour of his team. The Bright Crusaders and their fans went berserk, which for them meant respectfully applauding the losing team.

As the ogre security guards dragged away the skaven players, who continued squeaking threats at the referee as they were escorted off the pitch, Gerhardt searched the stands for Sister Bertilda. She was desperately trying to restrain her orphan charges. The youngsters had apparently become so overwhelmed with excitement they had joined in the orcs’ assault upon the fallen rat-ogre, hammering at the unconscious monster with their crutches. Their caps and scarves had fallen away to reveal faces bright with glee. Gerhardt took a moment to assure himself that orphans could indeed be green. It probably meant they were unwell or something. He stared, intrigued. Apparently, their condition had caused them to sprout long pointed ears and teeth that gleamed like rows of needles as they cackled. Gerhardt laughed to himself. It was as if someone had paid a bunch of goblins to dress up as orphans. He paused, the thought lingering in his head like an unwelcome smell.

Sister Bertilda was now hoofing up the stairs towards the exit, hitching up her robes to reveal a pair of impressively hairy legs. Maybe she was desperate to use the toilet. Maybe she had forgotten the orphans’ medication. Gerhardt vaulted over the advertising boards and dashed up the stairs after her, keen to offer assistance. The applauding fans tried to avert their eyes at the sight of the near-naked blitzer streaking up the steps beside them. Sister Bertilda tripped and something tumbled out of the front of her habit. Gerhardt saw a buxom pair of turnips bounce past him. He tried to tell himself that maybe she had brought a packed lunch, but his usually indomitable ignorance was already facing a rare defeat by the forces of reason.

Gerhardt caught the fleeing priestess with a diving tackle, bringing her down before she could reach the top of the stairs. Sister Bertilda barked an astonishing variety of swear words as the pair of them bounced back down the steps. Gerhardt eventually landed on top of her, pulling open her habit to reveal the dazed face of the Tomas, Coach Gutmann’s assistant.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Dolph, clambering over the advertising board to join Gerhardt at the foot of the stairs. ‘Let me explain.’

He forced himself to look into the blitzer’s face, his expression that of a kitten wondering what it had done to deserve being fed to a minotaur. The fans paused in taking another bite of their cat burgers, hundreds of hands hovering over boxes of deep-fried cockroach nuggets as the tension rose unbearably.

‘Sister Bertilda, the orphanage…’ said Dolph, his head bowed under the weight of his confession. ‘It was all a–’

Gerhardt interrupted. ‘You… lied?’

‘We all did.’

Dolph turned to see Felix the Chaste joining the rest of the shamefaced team as they gathered behind their coach. Tomas sidled away, straightening his habit and replacing the turnips down his front for reasons no one thought to question.

‘It was the only way we could stop you from… well, from being you,’ said Felix, his voice suddenly echoing from the Cabaltron nearby, as a Cabalvision camera-goblin eagerly broadcast the team’s confession to the entire stadium.

Gerhardt sat down on the steps in shock.

‘You’re a star player, Gerhardt, the noblest of us all,’ said Dolph, approaching him, almost in tears. ‘You are the brightest of the Bright Crusaders, but we were losing every game because of you. Sometimes victory must come before piety, surely, otherwise what’s the point of playing?’

Gerhardt stared at Dolph as though he were gibbering in a foreign tongue. The betrayed look upon the blitzer’s face ignited within the coach a monumental sense of shame. Dolph had prided himself upon his impeccable record. For eight years as a player he had faced every defeat with bewildering gallantry, his patience unbreakable, the inspirational legend of Dolph ‘the Saint’ Gutmann unquestionable. But now his legacy had been sullied by a single lie.

The irritated voice of the goblin referee broke the hush that had descended upon the stadium.

‘You haven’t actually broken any rules, you know,’ he said as he shoved his way through the players’ legs. ‘So do you want this bleedin’ trophy or not?’

Dolph felt countless eyes upon him. The Crusaders fans glared at him, many of them so wild with rage they looked as though they might lose control at any minute and write him a very, very stern letter. The other players stared at their boots as if in mourning. Gerhardt gazed up at Dolph with a childlike look of hope.

Dolph gave a long, melancholy sigh before turning and addressing the stadium.

‘A victory won unfairly is no victory at all,’ he said before turning to his players. ‘Who are we?’

They answered with what little enthusiasm they could muster.

‘The Bright Crusaders,’ they said.

Dolph nodded, feeling a pang of bitter satisfaction. ‘Maybe next year,’ he said.

His attempt to lead his team in a dignified exit from the pitch was marred somewhat by Gerhardt elbowing him into the stands as he roared to his feet, his voice amplified to an earthquake by the speakers of the Cabaltron.

‘Good people,’ he boomed, his words vibrating through the stands. ‘The code of the Bright Crusaders has not been compromised!’

‘We lied to you, Gerhardt,’ said Dolph, clambering out from between the legs of several fans. ‘It’s not how we win games.’

Gerhardt ignored him, leaning over the advertising boards and yelling at the camra-goblin. The image of his face filled the Cabaltron, raining the inside of the screen with spit.

‘My team swore an oath to me at half-time,’ he said. ‘They swore to join me in an act of penance that would assure the virtue of the Bright Crusaders as we claimed victory.’

He turned to his teammates. ‘Is this not so? Did you not all swear?’

The other players nodded, exchanging fearful looks as they realised that exactly what they had sworn to had never been made entirely clear.

Gerhardt continued. ‘Then I can assure you all that our victory has been achieved fairly, that our piety has not been compromised, that the strictures of virtue and honour have been obeyed! So swear I, Gerhardt the Penitent, the brightest of the Bright Crusaders!’

The fans erupted into forgiving applause and Gerhardt threw his arms around Dolph, who suddenly found himself trying to extract his face from the player’s cleavage. The applause intensified as the goblin referee shrugged and stomped off to inform the officials.

‘So...’ said Dolph, his features pinched between two slabs of pectoral muscle as he peered up at Gerhardt. ‘This act of penance you mentioned…’

Gerhardt beamed at Dolph as a pale arm snaked around the coach’s neck and pressed a foul-smelling rag to his nose. Blackness rushed over Dolph like a shroud.

‘Dolph,’ said Astrid Smallbeer, the halfling interviewer from CabalVision News. ‘The stadium’s empty, you’ve bared your soul before thousands of fans, and you’ve won the Bright Crusaders their first trophy in years. Now the excitement’s over, you appear to be in a contemplative mood.’

‘Well, it’s been a tough season,’ said Dolph. ‘We’ve all had to make sacrifices, but really I’m relieved more than anything that we could achieve victory without compromising our principles.’

Astrid nodded sagely and took another bite of an immense meat pie. ‘Principles have always been important to the Bright Crusaders,’ she said, spraying Dolph with pastry crumbs. ‘But even die-hard fans are questioning your decision – and, indeed, your sanity – in allowing Gerhardt the Penitent to bury the entire team!’

‘To be fair, he only had us buried up to our necks,’ said Dolph, puffing aside the blades of grass that kept tickling his nose as he looked up at Astrid, now shaking crumbs out of her plaits. ‘Knowing Gerhardt as I do, I think that shows tremendous restraint on his part. But really all we’re doing is what the Bright Crusaders have always done, and that’s demonstrate humility in the face of victory. We hope this gesture serves as an inspiration to the entire Blood Bowl community.’

Astrid fought to keep a straight face.

‘You’re clearly a firm believer in achieving the impossible,’ she said. ‘But some have suggested a month could try even the patience of Dolph “The Saint” Gutmann.’

‘I’m sorry, a month of what?’

‘Of being buried up to your necks.’

‘A month?’ yelled another head from somewhere further down the line of scrimmage. ‘I didn’t agree to that!’

‘I’m terribly sorry, Astrid,’ said Dolph, trying to maintain his composure as he felt yet another subterranean invertebrate seek refuge in his trousers. ‘But is Gerhardt around?’

‘He’s buried right behind you,’ she said. ‘He’s upside down, but he can still hear you. Look, he’s waving his feet.’

‘Ah, so he is,’ said Dolph through teeth gritted so hard he could hear them cracking.

Someone cried out. ‘I’ve had it! I quit! I don’t care! Just dig me out of here right now!’

Astrid hesitated. ‘Gerhardt’s trainers told us they were under strict instruction to leave you here until the stadium reopened. They had crossbows. Big scary ones.’

Dolph watched in horror as one of the dark elves slithered into view and whispered in Astrid’s ear.

She nodded. ‘They said not to worry. Your assistant has promised to feed and water you. Oh, and the groundskeeper’s said he’ll try to mow around you as best he can.’

‘The groundskeeper?’ said Dolph, struggling to make himself heard above the others wailing in his ears. ‘You mean Wulfe the Drunkard?’

‘The one with two eyepatches, that’s him,’ said Astrid. ‘Erm, Coach Gutmann are you alright? It’s just that your eyelids keep twitching. Coach Gutmann? Hello? Sorry, viewers. Dolph ‘the Saint’ Gutmann seems to have drifted off there, no doubt meditating on the glories that await the Bright Crusaders next season. This is Astrid Smallbeer, CabalVision News. Back to you in the studio, Jim.’

About the Author

Alec Worley is a well-known comics and science fiction and fantasy author, with numerous publications to his name. Also a film journalist and critic, he is an avid fan of Warhammer 40,000 and ‘Stormseeker’ in his first story for the Black Library. He lives and works in London.

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.
Cover illustration by Wayne England.

Pride and Penitence © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Pride and Penitence, 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: 978-1-78572-654-5

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.