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Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution – Graeme Lyon

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A Black Library Publication

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Mazlocke’s Cantrip
of Superior Substitution

by Graeme Lyon

‘Excitement is at a fever pitch today here in the, er, where are we again, Jim?’

Jim Johnson sighed and shook his head at his co-commentator.

‘We’re at the Light’s Hope Stadium in Talabheim, Bob,’ he said, smiling at the viewers at home, ‘here to witness what is likely to be a classic Blood Bowl match between two great teams, the Talabheim Titans and the Black Water Boyz.’

‘Ah, yeah, that’s right,’ rumbled Bob. ‘And we’ve been sent here to cover this seventh division match because of that incident with the goat during the–’

‘The viewers at home don’t want to hear about that, Bob,’ said Jim firmly. ‘All that matters is that the sport’s top commentators are here to guide them through the athletic spectacle that’s about to unfold. The match will be kicking off in about twenty minutes, folks, so stay tuned. We’ll be back to talk about the teams after these messages.’

Jim watched warily, a broad – and entirely false – grin on his face, until the warlock operating the image capture spell nodded, the light in his eyes blinking off, and then he slumped back in his seat.

‘For Vlad’s sake, Bob, remember where we are. Any more of that and you’ll get us chased by a mob with burning torches. Again. I started playing Blood Bowl to get away from that sort of treatment.’

Bob sighed, his huge shoulders slumping. ‘I know, Jim. It’s just such a waste of time us being here. These little league games are so boring. We’ll just be going through the motions. Nothing interesting is going to happen…’

‘We’ve got this one in the bag.’ Gerritt Vanderwald grinned as he looked at his team. The Talabheim Titans were in their locker room at the stadium they called home, and it was time for the pre-game pep talk. Fortunately, it was far from a difficult job. The team – thirteen humans and the lumbering ogre known as Ghurg – were relaxed and ready for the big match. In their crimson and white kit, they were hanging on his every word, eager to soak up his wisdom like the apothecary’s sponge would soak up bloodied water later. So he gave them the benefit of his years in the game.

‘The Boyz are on a losing streak a mile wide. You guys are the strongest you’ve ever been. Just keep it together and we’re golden. And with the big city commentators here, and lots of media attention, some of you…’

He directed his attention towards Johann Walsh and Kurt Grafstein, the team’s undoubted star players. Johann was a catcher of such skill that Vanderwald was sure he’d be poached by a team like the Reikland Reavers any day now, while Kurt was a competent blitzer, with the attitude of Griff Oberwald and about half the skill, but still better than the rest of them. Kurt’s attitude was far better – he was sitting in rapt attention, leaning forward to catch every word, while Johann seemed to be barely present. No doubt lost in dreams of glory, or at least of the cheerleading squad. ‘Some of you might just get a nice endorsement deal out of this. And that’ll be good for us all,’ Gerritt finished.

Times had been hard for the Titans lately. They’d had a nice winning streak, but in their position outside of the major leagues, that didn’t equate to much money, and they were teetering on the edge of bankruptcy. This opportunity – a broadcast game, with the famous Jim and Bob commentating, here at the team’s home ground – was a godsend.

‘I don’t need to tell you how much this can turn our fortunes around,’ he said. ‘Get out there, play well, and it’s up, up, up for you all.’

‘Up where?’ asked Ghurg, peering quizzically at the ceiling, which given the size of him was mere inches from his head.

Vanderwald sighed inwardly and drew a deep breath.

‘It means we’ll be rich and famous, Ghurg,’ said Walsh softly, looking up at the hulking ogre.

‘Will Ghurg still get to hit greenies and pointies and beardies?’ asked the ogre, his brows creasing with the effort of forming such a long sentence.

‘Always, Ghurg. You and me are a team, buddy. You hit ’em and I’ll score the touchdowns.’ He raised one hand up to the towering ogre, palm out. ‘Titans forever, chum.’

‘Titans forever,’ rumbled the ogre, a smile breaking across his scarred face as he slapped the catcher’s hand surprisingly gently. It had taken a while, but Ghurg had learned eventually not to break fellow players’ arms until he was on the pitch.

In another locker room on the other side of the stadium, eleven green-skinned orcs sat in silence on a filth-streaked floor while a pair of goblins chased a squealing squig round in circles. The diminutive creature had caused quite a lot of the aforesaid filth after eating everything in sight that couldn’t fight back, including the benches and the metal door of one of the lockers.

It hadn’t been a good few months for the Black Water Boyz. In fact, sitting in squig excrement could be considered a highlight. They’d lost every game they’d played this season – even, embarrassingly, against the halflings of the Tinkleheim Trotters – and were so hard up that they’d had to press-gang in the pair of older orcs who usually carried the team’s gear just to field a full squad. Any casualties in the match ahead would be catastrophic.

Borgut, the Boyz’ coach, stood in the doorway and watched his players. He’d never seen them so down before a match. Well, except Goblin, but he always looked like that. It was a goblin’s lot in life to be down at heel, so that hardly counted. He wished he could tell them what he had planned, but since it was… not entirely within the rules, so to speak, he was better leaving them out of the loop. It would be worth it later, when the Titans were defeated and the Black Water Boyz were in the ascendancy once more.

‘Boss?’

Borgut turned to see his assistant coach, Gazbag. ‘Is he here?’ he asked.

‘Yeah. He’s waiting for you.’

Borgut looked back at the players again, feeling a twinge of guilt at what he was about to do. It was for the team, he told himself. It was all for the team.

The Light’s Hope Stadium was packed, with humans from across the Old World, orcs and dwarfs who had taken the long and dangerous trip down from the mountains for the big game. There were even a few elves, keeping to themselves in one corner of the stands, surrounded by haughty-looking guards and servants waving censers filled with sweet-smelling herbs to counter the stench of the rest of the crowd (especially the dwarfs). Gerhardt Mannheim looked around, enjoying the sight – particularly the sight of what looked like a group of Amazons down near the pitch’s edge. He felt an elbow in his ribs, and turned to see his friend Tobias grinning broadly.

‘Look at them, Gerhardt. Dunno about you, but I wouldn’t mind seeing what’s under them feathers.’

Gerhardt sighed with exasperation. ‘What’s under those feathers is more muscle and talent than you’ll ever have in your life,’ he said.

Tobias looked abashed for a moment, then grinned again. ‘Yeah, but I’d still like to take a look. Besides, you’re not exactly a star player yourself, mate.’

Gerhardt bristled. ‘I have the talent and the knowledge,’ he snapped. ‘It’s not my fault my mam overfed me.’

‘Overfeeds you, you mean. Them meals she makes when I come round are always massive. And tasty.’

‘What are you talking about? I don’t live with my mam.’

Gerhardt glanced around desperately and saw a trio of beautiful girls in replica Titans tops sitting behind them, giggling. ‘I don’t live with my mam. He’s mad,’ he said weakly. They giggled again, and he turned away. ‘I don’t know why I hang around with you,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’d much rather get to know the cheerleaders…’

‘Two, four, six, eight, Titans will annihilate!’ Juliana belted out the cheer, jumping and waving her pom-poms in time to the rhythm. Around her, a dozen other cheerleaders did the same, performing a dance of intricate complexity that was completely wasted on the drooling Neanderthals in the stands.

‘Three, five, seven, nine, beat them on the scrimmage line!’ The words were painful to utter, so completely banal and pointless. Juliana hated what she did, but it was the only way, short of selling drinks in a kiosk in the stands, that she could be part of a game of Blood Bowl.

She loved the sport. She loved the strategy, the artistry, the adrenaline rush of a strong push into the opposing half of the field, the sheer exhilaration of a touchdown, the sound of an armoured elbow breaking bone, the noise of the crowd as they set upon a player stupid enough to loiter close enough to the edge of the pitch that a well-timed tackle could push them into the stands. She loved everything about it, or at least she was sure she would if she were ever allowed to experience it.

The cheerleaders finished their pre-match display and retired to the sidelines, to the audible dismay of certain segments of the crowd. They stepped back into the Titans dugout as the players filed past. Juliana braced herself, knowing what was about to happen. The same thing that happened before every match, however much she complained to Vanderwald.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ drawled a voice from behind, laden with arrogance.

She steeled herself and turned to face Kurt Grafstein, the Titans’ chief blitzer.

‘Kurt,’ she said through gritted teeth.

‘How’s my little good luck charm?’ he said, grinning what Juliana thought was supposed to be a winning smile, but just made her want to punch him even more.

‘Don’t you have a game to play, Kurt?’ she asked pointedly.

He laughed a decidedly fake laugh, throwing back his shoulders and placing his hands on his hips ostentatiously. Then he looked at her lasciviously. ‘Not until I get my pre-match kiss,’ he said.

Juliana heard a sigh from behind her. Probably Emilia or Romana, or one of the others for whom getting attention from a player like Kurt would be a life highlight. ‘I’m sure one of the others–’ she began, before Kurt tried to grab her waist and pull her towards him. Juliana bit down the impulse to punch him and dodged out of his way, anger flooding her. As usual, he tried to move in again, but a hand on his shoulder stopped him.

‘Get out there and play to your adoring fans, Kurt,’ said Johann Walsh.

‘But why do that when I have such an adoring – and adorable – one right here?’

‘Because you’re paid to make those ones happy,’ Johann said firmly.

‘And I adore you about as much as a dose of Nurgle’s Rot,’ muttered Juliana.

Kurt either didn’t hear, or pretended not to. He leered at her again, then turned and ran onto the pitch, to rapturous response.

‘Thanks, Johann,’ Juliana said, leaning forward to give the catcher a peck on the cheek. ‘You’re one of the good ones.’

‘Just looking out for a teammate,’ Johann replied. He gave her a dazzling smile before turning and running onto the field to the adulation of the crowd.

‘He don’t look like much of a wizard,’ said Gazbag in a whisper.

Borgut was forced to agree. The sorcerer was his last-ditch attempt to bring the Black Water Boyz back to glory. They were never going to beat a team like the Titans by legitimate means, and the limited magic that the Colleges allowed their licensed wizards to perform wasn’t going to do the trick. Borgut had been directed to this Mazlocke character after making some discreet enquiries in the seedier hostelries of Talabheim. He hadn’t met the wizard face to face, or even anyone who’d used his services, but he had seized the opportunity regardless. If Mazlocke could deliver what he promised, he’d be well worth his hefty fee, which had drained the last of the team’s coffers.

The wizard was a small man (though all humans looked small to Borgut, to be fair), and wasn’t as impressive as he’d expected. His robes were threadbare and patched, and his beard wasn’t much better. He looked a lot younger than most wizards Borgut had met, though that wasn’t many outside the College wizards who policed magic in Blood Bowl matches. This one could have been any age, Borgut supposed. You could never quite tell with those who dabbled in the dark arts.

‘Are you, er, Gorbut?’ the wizard asked, peering at a scrap of paper in his hand, his voice trembling.

The orc nodded. ‘Close enough. Is the spell ready?’

‘Yes!’ The wizard sounded much more confident now. ‘Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution is just what you need. It’ll send your players into the depths of space and time and replace them with some of the greatest Blood Bowl players ever, past and future.’

‘And we’ll get away with that, will we?’ asked Gazbag.

Borgut sighed.

‘How is the ref going to stop us?’ he asked. ‘By the time he sorts out who’s supposed to be on the field or not, we’ll have scored a load of touchdowns and knocked out most of the ’umies.’

‘And then when the spell ends, the players will all go back where they came from,’ chimed in the wizard.

‘Yeah! So there’ll be no evidence anything was ever different. It’ll be fine.’ Borgut turned back to Mazlocke and thrust a small bag into his hand. ‘Alright. Here’s yer first payment. You’ll get the rest when we win. Now come on and cast the spell before the Titans score so many touchdowns we’ll never catch up.’

The Black Water Boyz had trudged onto the field first, barely responding to the half-hearted cheers of the crowd. There were ten orcs, giant green-skinned brutes, each with more muscle in one arm than Gerhardt had in his entire body – not that he’d ever admit that out loud. Trailing at their heels was a goblin. The diminutive, wiry creature looked even more dejected and beaten than the rest of the team. Gerhardt opened his programme and rifled through it to find the team listings. He laughed when he saw the goblin listed as simply ‘Goblin’. He pointed it out to Tobias.

‘They prob’ly don’t last long enough on the pitch to make a name worth bothering with,’ he said, and his friend laughed.

Next came the Titans. Gerhardt sat up straighter. This was his team. He knew every player, and every stat. He could recite the touchdown and casualty records of each blitzer, reel off instantly how many interceptions the catchers had made (and against which teams, when and where) and put a number on the longest successful pass made by the throwers. He knew exactly how many opposing players Ghurg the ogre had permanently crippled and killed.

And of all the team, Gerhardt was particularly knowledgeable about Kurt Grafstein. When asked, Gerhardt said this was because of Kurt’s tremendous skill, his impressive scoring record and the fact that he had more confirmed casualties than any other human player in the seventh division. But in truth, it was because Kurt came from the same small village in rural Talabecland that Gerhardt did, and had achieved everything Gerhardt wished he could, but knew that he never, ever would.

In short, when it came to Kurt Grafstein, Gerhardt was as jealous as it was possible to be, and that jealousy had become what Tobias and Gerhardt’s mother referred to as ‘his little obsession’.

It had started with clipping out all articles mentioning Kurt from Spike! magazine and putting them in a scrapbook. Then there was the Titans merchandise featuring Kurt that covered every inch of Gerhardt’s bedroom walls and ceiling.

Then he’d spent months watching Kurt’s parents’ house, hoping to catch a glimpse of him when he came to visit. He’d had to stop that when he was caught. He’d claimed that he was watching Kurt’s younger sister, a comely girl about Gerhardt’s own age. That had been awkward, especially when she’d been dragged out and publicly rejected him, but better than people thinking he was obsessed with Kurt.

Finally, he’d started writing to Kurt, long letters in his cramped, sloping handwriting telling Kurt how much he admired him, how much he wished he could meet him and talk to him about all the player’s many triumphs and how good friends they would be. He had written dozens of them, and never received a single response. It really wasn’t fair. But that didn’t matter today. He’d support Kurt no matter what. He always would.

The coin flew into the air, glinting in the bright sunlight. Johann couldn’t see it clearly from where he stood in the wide zone, but he knew that Kurt would have called heads. He always did. The referee – a stout dwarf with a bristling beard dyed into black and white stripes to match his jersey – caught the coin from the air and shouted ‘Tails!’ in a voice just audible over the roar of the crowd. Johann saw Kurt and his opposite number, a hulking orc in battered iron armour, shake hands.

Johann took a deep breath and enjoyed the moment. This was always his favourite time, just before the game began. He looked around, taking in the scope of the stadium – thousands of cheering fans, the great magical displays that showed the view of the various camra-wizards, the smells from the food vendors, the feel of the astrogranite beneath his boots. This was what he lived for.

The referee blew the whistle, and the Black Water Boyz kicked off. The ball flew into the air and Johann caught it and started to run. It was on.

Ten minutes passed as the two teams readied their plays. The ball passed back and forth, a few blocks led to some humans and orcs shedding blood onto the field, and a lucky tackle by one of the larger greenskins had a human lineman stretchered off the field with one leg at an angle that was entirely unnatural. It was business as usual.

‘Well, Jim, I don’t know what you think of this match so far, but I can’t say I’m impressed,’ rumbled Bob,

‘Well, you can, Bob, you have that ability, but in this case I agree completely. Ten minutes in, and neither team has done anything daring. There’s some talent out there on the field – Grafstein of the Titans is definitely one to watch – but they’re not taking chances. Unless something exceptional happens, this is going to be a very dull match indeed.’

Bob nodded. ‘That’s right, Jim. And I think we both know what the chances of something exceptional happening are.’

Borgut watched Mazlocke work. The wizard stood at the centre of a circle painted on the floor of the cramped cupboard they’d cleared of cleaning products to perform the ritual. He was using a foul-smelling substance that Borgut decided he’d rather not know the provenance of. The wizard was chanting in a voice that sounded suspiciously high-pitched.

‘I dunno what language he’s speaking, but it def’nitely sounds arcane, dunnit?’ whispered Gazbag, peering past Borgut to look into the cupboard. The two orcs stood out in the corridor, since there was only enough space for one inside.

‘Yeah,’ said Borgut doubtfully. He watched Mazlocke waving his arms in strange patterns, his utterances and movements growing faster and more urgent. The space inside the circle started to glow, as did the wizard’s eyes. The intricate patterns he was tracing in the air were now visible. Borgut took a step backwards and pulled Gazbag in front of him, just in case. It never paid to entirely trust wizards.

The ritual came to its climax, Mazlocke now shouting arcane gibberish as a web of light shone around him. Then there was a strange pop, the world turned inside out for a moment and Borgut closed his eyes as the light became too bright to stand. When he opened them again, the circle was empty. Mazlocke was gone.

‘Where’d he go?’ squeaked Gazbag.

‘I dunno, but he’ll be back for…’ Borgut trailed off as a horrible suspicion set in. ‘The money.’ He launched into a run, sprinting to the Boyz’ stinking locker room. He pulled open the locker he’d stashed the much larger bag of gold in. It was empty.

Now that the game was getting exciting, the atmosphere in the crowd was nothing short of electric. Gerhardt had been frankly embarrassed by the poor showing from the Titans early on. They were capable of so much better. The early injury to Gellert Holstein had been a setback, and had given the Black Water Boyz a bit of hope and energy, which had raised the tempo of the match.

Gerhardt was on his feet, shouting himself hoarse as he watched the action on the pitch below. One of the orc throwers lobbed the ball in a perfect pass towards the diminutive goblin, who sped towards the end zone. All that stood between the Boyz and a touchdown was Johann Walsh. As Gerhardt watched, the ball seemed to slow down and stop, then the world spun around him, and he fell, but he was horizontal, and he felt his elbow impact on flesh and bone…

Johann leaped into the air, twisting to avoid a punch thrown by one of the burlier orcs, and reached for the ball as it flew past his face. Just as his fingertips touched it, he felt something hit him. The ball sped past out of reach and he was thrown forwards. He landed on the soft grass and rolled over, groaning in agony, oblivious to the unexpectedly high pitch of his voice…

Goblin ran, heedless of whoever might be around him. The end zone was ahead, but his eyes were fixed on the ball arcing through the air. A few yards more and he’d be in position to catch it and score. If he did, he might get fed tonight. He ran, arms and legs pumping, and then his vision blurred and he wasn’t moving anymore. He couldn’t see the ball and the ground suddenly seemed quite a lot more distant than it had been. Was he flying?

Kurt was showboating. The ball was on the other side of the field, so no one was paying him the attention he was due, and that was unacceptable. He kicked the leg out from beneath an orc thrower, then threw himself down on the greenskin elbow-first in an ostentatious display of skill and martial prowess. The blow didn’t make contact. There was a bright light, and then the roaring of the crowd was much louder, and he fell back onto a hard wooden bench, crowds pressing in tight around him. He looked down, and uttered an unbelieving curse…

Juliana stood atop a pyramid of cheerleaders, held aloft by hands gripping her ankles. She cheered, waving her pom-poms towards the stands, and watched as Johann leapt and missed the ball. Then her head swam and she felt a force pushing her. She lost her balance and fell, the grips on her legs loosening, and then she was on the ground. She looked up and saw, much to her surprise, a rather large and heavily armoured orc about to land on her…

Ghurg was happily watching people running around. He enjoyed this. All he had to do was stand in the middle of the field, and when someone green came near, hit them until they fell down or ran away screaming. He was good at that, the hitting. A movement nearby caught his attention. A big orc (not as big as Ghurg, but bigger than most of the others) with very dark skin and spikes on his armour was running towards him, clearly wanting a fight. Ghurg raised one massive meaty fist to meet the oncomer. Then everything shook, and Ghurg was looking at the sky and running. He tripped and fell head over heels, and blinked up to see a ball hurtling down towards his face…

‘And Raggut throws a beautiful pass towards the end zone, but it looks like Walsh is in position to intercept…’ Jim Johnson’s voice was high and fast as he related the events on the field to the watching audience.

‘If he can avoid the fists of the blitzer Mugwort there, Jim,’ interjected Bob.

‘And it looks like he has, Bob, and he’s reaching for the ball – oh, he’s missed it!’

‘Yeah, he has, and that could be bad for the Titans, Jim. On the other hand, it looks like Grafstein is bringing the hurt to poor Mugwort in retaliation,’ said the ogre. ‘This is turning out to be a pretty decent game, eh?’

‘It is indeed, Bob, and–’ Jim’s voice choked off as several things happened at once. Down on the field, there was a flash of light, and several of the players seemed to convulse. As the flash reached the commentator’s box, Jim felt his head swim. He shook it, and continued.

‘Sorry about that, I felt dizzy for a…’ He trailed off, paused for a moment and spoke again. ‘Something seemed to hit the…’ Again, he let his sentence end prematurely, as he wondered what was going on. He gave voice to his concern. ‘Bob… Why do I suddenly sound like you?’

He looked to his right, but the ogre wasn’t there. He looked left and saw, much to his surprise, himself, staring up at him in disbelief.

‘I don’t know, Jim,’ his doppelganger said. ‘But I have to say, you look a lot like me as well.’

Jim looked down, and there was a lot more ‘down’ than usual. Below him stretched the very large, quite fat, and undeniably ogreish body of Bob Bifford.

‘Bob,’ he said in the ogre’s deep and grating voice, ‘I think something exceptional has happened.’

Juliana rolled left moments before the orc’s massive body landed. It missed her by inches, and the impact threw up mud that splattered her. She scrambled to her feet, but her body felt sluggish, as if it were somehow bigger and more densely muscled than before.

She thrust her confusion to one side and leapt backwards as the orc, back on his feet, threw a punch at her. She ducked beneath another blow strong enough to take off her head and put all her strength into a diving tackle. She hit the orc in the midriff with all her strength, and… it did nothing. She fell back, and the greenskin laughed and stamped a massive hob-nailed boot down towards her chest.

Juliana – or whoever she was right now – rolled, taking the blow to her left arm and feeling something break, then pushed herself to her feet, gasping at the pain. She evaded another of the orc’s wild swings, then half-cheered as another Titans player, the lineman Phineas Crabbe, barrelled into the greenskin from behind.

‘Ball’s open, Johann,’ Crabbe yelled as he and the orc went down in a tangle of limbs. ‘Get it!’

Juliana looked around, trying to orient herself, before Crabbe’s words really sunk in. He had called her Johann. She looked down and saw not her skimpy cheerleaders costume, but the white cloth and red lacquered armour of the Titans… on a man’s body. Johann’s body.

Looking over towards the field’s edge, where she had been atop the human pyramid, she could see the Titans cheerleaders clustering around a fallen figure. She watched in silent horror as the girls helped the figure to its feet. No, to her feet. Literally hers. The standing figure was Juliana. It was her.

‘Juliana, what happened? Are you alright?’

Johann’s head swam and he blinked as vision returned, looking up into the face of Mariella, one of the Titans cheerleaders.

‘What… what are you doing on the field?’ he asked, voice slurring and, he realised, high. Not his own. ‘What… what’s going on? Why do I sound like–’

‘Juliana, I asked if you’re alright,’ said Mariella, impatience tinging her tone. ‘Come on, you’ve taken harder falls than that.’

‘Why d’you keep calling me Juliana,’ Johann asked blearily. ‘I’m–’

‘You’re going to be in trouble with Mr. Vanderwald if you don’t get up and start cheering again. You know he hates it when the crowd gets restless.’

Hands grabbed at Johann and pulled him to his feet into a mass of scantily-clad cheerleaders. In his bleary state, it half occurred to him that he was in the midst of some sort of fantasy, but that thought was quickly dispelled as pom-poms were thrust into his hands and he was pushed towards the stands, where fans were leaning forward, leering and clamouring. Behind him, the cheerleaders started to chant.

‘Why do you want me to cheer?’ he asked, and finally the haze lifted and he realised that his voice wasn’t his own, and neither was his body. He was a cheerleader. He was a woman. He was Juliana.

Goblin flinched as Krusha, the biggest and meanest black orc he’d ever been on a team with, barrelled towards him.

‘What’ve I done, Krusha?’ he squeaked in alarm, but his voice was much, much deeper than it should have been. Plus, Krusha looked… small. He was still massive, with arms and legs as thick as tree trunks and a fist raised that could have crushed Goblin into green paste with a single squeeze, but he looked strangely puny. Goblin lifted one arm in a vain attempt to try and fend off this confusing and unprovoked attack – he was sure he hadn’t done anything wrong except miss the ball, and that wasn’t unusual. His arm made contact with the black orc and lifted him from his feet, throwing him into the air and knocking him back. Goblin was stunned.

‘Did I do that?’ he asked. ‘Sorry, Krusha. I dint mean to.’

The orc didn’t respond. Goblin knelt down next to him, the movement slow and cumbersome, and prodded the orc in the face. His finger was huge. And it wasn’t green. Goblin knew he wasn’t the smartest creature in the world – though he could rightly claim to be a genius next to some of the orcs on the Black Water Boyz – but even he realised now that something about himself was different. He was big. He wasn’t green anymore. He was…

‘An ogre!’ he shouted. ‘I’s become an ogre!’

Visions filled his mind of the things he could accomplish. A creature as powerful as an ogre with the cunning mind of a goblin – he could be famous. He could be rich and powerful, he could make his mark on the world. But, he realised, that could wait. There was one thing he wanted more than anything else. The one thing any goblin really, truly wanted and would always take given the opportunity. Revenge on the orcs who tormented him. He stood up, grinned, and stamped down on Krusha’s stupid, drooling face, over and over again.

‘Take that, Krusha. Take that, all orcs!’ He raised his voice and shouted to the sky. ‘I is Goblin, and I’s gonna get you all!’

The ball landed just next to Ghurg. He ignored it, trying to work out why he was lying down on the grass. He remembered an orc running towards him and raising a fist. He couldn’t have been knocked down. Ghurg was never knocked down. He was the one who knocked. He looked around, but didn’t see the orc. And he wasn’t where he had been standing, on the touchline. He was way down the pitch, close to an end zone. He’d never been this close to one before. He wasn’t allowed to play with the ball, just to stand and hit anyone who came close.

He pulled himself to his feet, and was confused again. The ground seemed much closer than usual. And his arms and legs were skinny and green. His armour was gone too. This was very strange. Ghurg looked around to see if anyone else from the Titans had turned green and tiny. It didn’t look like it, but he could see Johann. Johann was nice, was his friend. He didn’t call him ugly or stupid like some of the other players did. He liked Johann. He decided to get up and go and ask Johann what to do.

As an afterthought, Ghurg turned to pick up the ball. It seemed big, but he scooped it up, carrying it in front of him in his two small, green hands, and started trotting towards Johann.

‘What in Nuffle’s name is going on?’ shouted Kurt, as he looked down at the field in disbelief. ‘Why am I sitting here among you stinking savages when I should be down there being magnificent?’

‘Haha, nice one, Gerhardt,’ drawled a voice to his right. He turned to see a spotty and unkempt boy in an oversized Titans replica uniform.

‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘And who’s Gerhardt?’

‘Duh, you are,’ said the boy. ‘Did you hit your head or something? And you know who I am. Stop being an idiot and watch the game. Your boyfriend just broke an orc’s face.’

‘My boyf… What are you talking about? I’m not Gerhardt, I’m Kurt Grafstein, and I… Wait, how did I get here?’

‘You’re Kurt Grafstein?’ The boy looked incredulous. ‘What are you talking about? You’re Gerhardt Plumstader, and you’ve been sitting there for an hour, you moron.’

‘Gerhardt Plumstader? Why is that name familiar?’ Kurt wracked his brains. He knew the name, but from where? ‘Plumstader… There are Plumstaders in Helheim, where I grew up.’

‘Yeah, they’re your parents. Seriously Gerhardt, what’s going on? This isn’t funny. I know you’re obsessed with Kurt, but stop this pretending. It’s creepy.’

Obsessed. Gerhardt Plumstader. It all clicked into place for Kurt. The letters, from a boy from Helheim. He hadn’t read them – he didn’t have time to read fan mail – but he’d been told about them by team security, who thought this Gerhardt Plumstader seemed a tad obsessed. ‘Probably not dangerous, but if he contacts you in any other way, please let us know,’ the guard had said.

Cold fury overtook Kurt. He turned and grabbed the boy’s chin, pulling his face level to Kurt’s own.

‘What did that little weirdo do to me?’ he growled.

Gerhardt yelped as he felt bone crunch beneath his elbow and heard a grunt of pain.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I was in the stands, and I was cheering, and–’

He was rudely interrupted by a very large and very powerful green fist smacking him very hard in the face. He was thrown back, feeling a sharp flare of pain and a surge of adrenalin.

‘Ow, why did you do that?’

‘You ’it me,’ grunted the orc who was now towering over Gerhardt, cracking his knuckles menacingly. ‘You might be some fancy-pants ’umie blitzer, but that don’t mean you can ’it me.’

‘Blitzer? I, no, there’s been some mistake here. I’m just a fan, an ordinary person, I don’t even know why you’d think I–’

Gerhardt stopped abruptly as the adrenaline wore off and his brain kicked back in. He looked up properly at the orc, as if seeing him for the first time, then down at himself, at the mud- and blood-flecked uniform he wore, in the white and red of the Titans.

‘I’m on the pitch,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘I’m a player. I’m a Titan!’

The orc laughed and threw himself at Gerhardt, who reacted with a punch to the orc’s stomach. The orc’s heavily armoured stomach. Gerhardt screamed as his fingers broke, then the orc barrelled into him and he screamed some more.

He kicked out, pushing the orc back, then threw himself to his feet and ran.

Borgut ran out of the locker room, Gazbag at his heels. He sprinted up out of the dugout to the field and stopped in disbelief as he saw the state of the pitch. The promised hordes of skilled players weren’t anywhere to be seen. And neither were the Black Water Boyz, at least not in any effective, organised way. They were getting hammered.

‘That cheating little scumbag!’ he roared.

Gazbag peered around, squinting at the orcs who littered the field, most of them on their backs moaning where the Titans’ ogre had left them as it rampaged across the pitch. ‘Boss, where’s the special players?’ he asked eventually.

‘There are none,’ hissed Borgut from between gritted fangs. ‘I don’t know if that little weasel Mazlocke conned us, or if he was just rubbish, but nothing’s happened.’

‘Maybe it’s just gonna take some time, boss. Maybe the spell caught the players sleeping or something, and they’re getting their kit on.’

Borgut goggled at his assistant. ‘Sleeping? Sleeping? The only players sleeping seem to be the Boyz! Look at them – I’ve seen fewer casualties on a battlefield!’

Gazbag shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly. ‘What’s gonna happen to the Boyz then?’ he asked.

Borgut glared up at him. ‘What do you think? We were already about done, and this disaster is it. The end. It’s over. All our gold is gone, the team are getting hammered out there, and when the Colleges of Magic find out what I did, I’ll be deader than our chances of winning this game.’ Misery overtook him and he slumped to the ground. ‘This is the end of the Black Water Boyz.’

‘In that case, I’m gonna leave now and get the first caravan back to the mountains,’ said Gazbag cheerfully. ‘I hear the Gunbad Giants are looking for a new coach. I fink the spiders ate the old one. See ya, boss.’ He turned and wandered towards the stadium’s exit.

Borgut watched him go, then started shouting incoherent curses at the universe in general and unlicensed wizards in particular.

This was Juliana’s chance. She was on the field, the ball was nearby and she could finally prove what she could do. Okay, it wasn’t exactly her, but that was a small thing. She scanned her surroundings for the ball as Crabbe, now aided by Pearce, put the boot into the orc who had tried to tackle her, and the dwarf referee moved in to break them up.

A short distance away, she saw a goblin struggling to balance the ball in both hands while running forward, tripping, falling, picking itself back up and grabbing the ball again. Oddly, it was running away from the end zone and towards her. She shrugged and sprinted towards it.

Goblin was having so much fun. He’d beaten up more orcs than he could count (more than one). None of them could stand up to his massive strength. He saw two of them moving towards him at once, one from each side. Laughing maniacally, he jumped and dropkicked one while swinging his massive ogre fists at the other. They both went down, and he landed bodily on top of them, relishing the crack of bones breaking and the gurgles of pain.

Goblin pulled himself back to his feet, stopped to wipe blood from his hands and then he saw… himself. Halfway across the pitch, the body he knew and hated was running unsteadily, ball in hand, towards a human, who was sprinting towards the goblin.

‘No!’ Goblin shouted at the top of his, now considerable, voice. ‘You no hurt Goblin!’ and charged towards them.

Kurt was pushing his way through the stands, moving down towards the field. He needed to find Vanderwald. ‘Get out of my way,’ he shouted at a group of dwarfs who seemed to be having a drinking competition, judging by the empty ale barrels around them. ‘Don’t you know who I am?’ he screamed as he tried to push one of them aside.

‘No!’ the dwarf said, standing up to his full height, such as it was, and cracking his knuckles menacingly. ‘But I do like to know a fella’s name before I beat him to death with his own leg, so who are ye, laddie?’

‘I don’t have time for this,’ Kurt muttered. He took a few steps back and sprinted, then leapt over the dwarf. At least, he tried to. Had he been in his own body, he’d have succeeded. In the clumsy, unfit body of an obsessed fan, he instead tripped over a trailing shoelace and fell head-first into the dwarf, who reeled back, blood welling from his newly-broken nose.

‘What in Nuffle’s name do ye think yer doing, ye human bampot?’ the dwarf yelled, his beard rapidly turning red. ‘Think ye can treat me like that just ’cos I’m a dwarf, do ye? Well I’ll show ye what we do to folks with that attitude up in the mountains, laddie.’

The dwarf made a fist and lashed out at Kurt, who reeled backwards to avoid it. He overbalanced and tumbled over the seats on the next level down, colliding with a group of smelly Bretonnian peasants, who tumbled away. The dwarf followed, vaulting over the seats on the third attempt. Hob-nailed boots landed inches from Kurt’s borrowed head.

‘I don’t have time for this,’ he growled, grabbing the dwarf’s legs and yanking hard. The bearded, bleeding dwarf fell on his back. Kurt pulled himself up, stomped on the dwarf’s face, enjoying the sound of bone cracking, and sprinted away as fast as he could in his new body.

As he ran on, Kurt heard the dwarf saying, awe in his voice, ‘I dinnae ken who that is, but he’s a violent wee lad. He should be a player.’

He saw Vanderwald on the touchline, yelling abuse at the referee, who seemed to be trying to drag two of the Titans off an orc. Further along, he saw the Black Water Boyz’ coach on his knees, having some sort of fit. Pushing his way to ground level, he went to leap over the barriers separating the crowd and the players, but his borrowed body wouldn’t make it over. Sighing in exasperation, he raised his voice and shouted to the head coach.

‘Vanderwald! VANDERWALD!’

The coach’s head turned, and Kurt waved. ‘Over here! I need to talk to you!’ Vanderwald snorted and turned away, and Kurt shouted again. ‘NOW! Get over here.’

The coach hesitated, then trotted over to the barriers.

‘Look, son, I’m busy just now, but if you want an autograph, hang around after the game.’

‘Oh, shut up, coach. No one wants your autograph, they want mine,’ snapped Kurt.

‘Why would anyone–’

‘It’s me, you stupid old man. Kurt. Kurt Grafstein.’

‘Are you mental, boy? Kurt’s out there.’ Vanderwald gestured to the field, then looked at where he was pointing.

Kurt focused on the same point, and saw himself running away from an orc, screaming. ‘What the hell is he doing?’ Vanderwald asked.

‘He is not me,’ Kurt yelled. ‘I mean, he, the me out there, is this person, who I am right now. I mean, I am Kurt, in this body, and this body’s owner is, presumably, out there running away from a very large orc.’ Kurt looked back out at the field, and felt a surge of fear. ‘Running very slowly, actually. Oh god, he’s going to–’ He winced as, out on the field, the orc caught up with ‘Kurt’ and, almost casually, knocked him to the ground.

Gerhardt felt something hit him from behind and he fell face-first to the ground. He tasted blood and mud, and then he was in the air. He looked frantically around to see himself being lifted by the orc he’d punched.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I really am, I didn’t mean– oh nooooooo!’ he squealed as the orc started turning around slowly, gripping Gerhardt’s leg in both hands and spinning him like a goblin fanatic with his ball and chain. The orc sped up and Gerhardt tried to scream, but couldn’t as the motion made him queasy, then violently ill. He heard the orc laughing madly, then it spoke.

‘I thought you were supposed to be some kinda star,’ it sneered. ‘Let’s see how the crowd likes you, eh?’

Then Gerhardt was flying through the air, still spinning, and below him he could see the press of the crowd and hear baying voices and then he was landing and hands were tearing at him and then everything went mercifully dark.

Johann felt utterly exposed. He’d never told anyone, but he had a recurring nightmare that he turned up to team practice naked. It was the worst thing he had ever imagined. What was happening now was worse.

It wasn’t the skimpy uniform he was wearing. He didn’t mind that too much, actually. The skirt was pretty comfortable, and feeling the breeze on his skin was quite nice.

It wasn’t the dancing either. As a catcher, he was used to being athletic, and he’d spent enough time watching the cheerleaders to have some idea of their moves. He was quite sure he wasn’t doing as well as Juliana usually did, but he wasn’t entirely embarrassing himself. Well, her.

No, the part that was making him feel horrendous was the shouts coming from the crowd. On a drunken night out with the team, he’d once ended up in an ‘exotic dancing’ bar in Bretonnia, and even there, the customers had been more polite to the dancers than what he was hearing now.

Then the world went wobbly again. He blinked, hoping that he would suddenly be back in his own body. Instead, there was a blinding flash and someone fell on him. It was a short man with a stubbly beard, terrible skin and what looked like a homemade attempt to replicate the kind of robes worn by College wizards. It seemed to have been patched together from stained old blankets and what looked like feedbags used by Bretonnian warhorses. Crude mystical-looking symbols had been stitched onto it in haphazard fashion.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ the man muttered. ‘I should have appeared where there wasn’t anyone. My, aren’t you lovely, in your, ah, is that a cheerleader’s costume, my dear?’ The man looked worried. ‘In white and red. Oh dear, those are Titans’ colours, aren’t they? Oh no. Oh, nonononononono. I’m still here. I should be miles away. That stupid spellbook!’

The man looked around frantically, then jumped to his feet. ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to–’

His words were cut off as Johann leapt to his – her, whatever – feet and punched him in the stomach with a pom-pom-wielding fist.

‘That’s for calling me “my dear”,’ he growled in Juliana’s voice. ‘Now, who in Nuffle’s name are you?’

The man opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, a large bag popped into existence in the air. It hung there for a moment, with everyone around gaping at it. Then gravity seemed to catch up with whatever magic had created the bag, and it fell, landing on him with a loud thud and knocking him out cold.

‘Well, that was unexpected,’ Johann said, gaping at the unconscious wizard.

Wizard! That was it. This wizard must have had something to do with what happened. Johann threw down his pom-poms and opened the bag as the wizard moaned gently. It was full of gold marked with orcish symbols. Johann looked down at the wizard, then to where a burly orc was weeping on the sidelines.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘I think I have an idea what’s going on here. Where’s Vanderwald?’

Juliana sprinted towards the goblin, utterly focused on it and the ball it half-carried, half-dragged. She was so focused that she almost missed the ogre barrelling towards her at high speed, shouting something about goblins in his guttural voice.

She skidded to a halt at the last moment and threw herself backwards as the ogre thudded past, towards the goblin.

‘What are you doing, Ghurk?’ she shouted to him, but the ogre ignored her. He reached the goblin and, to Juliana’s utter astonishment, scooped it up and sat it on his shoulder. The goblin was clearly equally astounded at this turn of events, as it dropped the ball and waved frantically at her instead, squealing, if she heard it correctly, ‘Johann! Johann, it’s me! Johann!’

The ogre turned towards her, looked at her for a moment, then looked over at where the referee was still trying to disentangle Crabbe, Pearce and an orc. A grin split the ogre’s face, and it shouted ‘Goblin will help!’ then thundered towards the scrum.

Juliana blinked, then caught herself. The ball was just feet away. She scooped it up, and turned. She was close to the orc end zone. She needed to be at the other end of the field to score, but there were bound to be loads of opponents between here and…

‘Ah,’ she said to herself as her gaze took in the tableau of the match. There were barely any orcs standing. It looked like a dwarf deathroller had cut a swathe of destruction through them. Small clumps of Titans players were taking the opportunity to pick on the few orcs still upright while the referee was busy. Near the stands, one greenskin was spinning a human player around his head. He let go and the human sailed up and towards the crowd, screaming. It looked like Kurt.

Juliana knew she should feel sympathetic, given what he would face when those animals in the stands got hold of him, but in truth she didn’t care, especially given the way he pawed at her given any opportunity.

The orc turned and saw her, and spotted the ball in her hands. It roared and started towards her. Grinning fiercely, Juliana ran.

‘What did you do?’ screamed Vanderwald into the shabby wizard’s face.

‘N-nothing,’ the wizard said, weeping. ‘Honestly, I–’

‘I think it was the orcs, coach,’ Jul–Johann said. ‘He had this bag of orc-stamped coins.’

‘They’re not mine. They’re hers. She’s blaming me,’ the wizard muttered.

‘Shut up, you,’ Vanderwald said. ‘What do you suggest, Julia– I mean Johann. I think.’

The coach was still trying to wrap his head around what was going on, but the cheerleader and the strange stalker-boy were adamant that they were actually Johann and Kurt, and it made as much sense as anything else that was happening today.

‘I think it might be a good idea to see why the orc coach is crying,’ the cheerleader said, pointing to a crumpled and broken-looking greenskin a few yards away.

Vanderwald prodded the orc coach with his foot. Hard.

‘Oi, Borgut!’ he yelled. ‘Have you been trying to cheat again?’

The orc looked up through bleary eyes, saw Mazlocke and blinked once, then again. Then he launched himself at the wizard.

‘Where’s my gold, you no-good, thieving, useless excuse for a shaman?’ he shouted.

Kurt and Johann stepped forward and pulled the orc back.

‘What exactly did you do, Borgut?’ Vanderwald asked through gritted teeth.

The orc sighed. ‘I hired this charlatan to cast a spell that would substitute my players for… better ones.’

‘Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution,’ the wizard piped up. ‘Guaranteed to… Eh, never mind,’ he said as four pairs of eyes glared at him. ‘I’ll shut up now.’

‘What went wrong?’ Johann asked.

‘Well, I got the spell from an old book, and it was in an obscure language, and I might have mistranslated it a bit. I’m not exactly College-trained. The same thing happened with the teleport spell,’ he said, looking abashed. ‘Otherwise I’d be miles away by now.’

‘Can it be reversed?’ Vanderwald asked.

‘Um… I really don’t know,’ Mazlocke admitted, red-faced. ‘I have the book here.’ He reached into his dingy robes and pulled out an ancient tome with arcane runes on the cover.

Vanderwald sighed and turned to Johann.

‘We need a real wizard. Go and find one of the ones running the camras. It’s time to reverse this idiot’s spell and put you all back where you belong.’

Juliana was yards from the end zone. A touchdown was in sight. Unfortunately, so was the orc. It bore down on her, grunting belligerently. She wasn’t going to make it. This called for a risky play. She stopped on the spot, threw the ball straight upwards and then, with a deep breath, leapt after it. The orc charged and grabbed her by the legs, pulling her to the field. She tasted mud and rolled from the greenskin’s grip onto her back. She looked up as a shadow passed over the sun.

It was Ghurg.

The ogre slammed into the orc, bellowing incoherently. On its shoulder, the goblin still held on for dear life. The ogre kept moving, taking the orc with it, and the ball landed just feet in front of Juliana. She silently thanked Nuffle – and Ghurg – grabbed the ball and threw herself over the touchline.

The crowd went wild, and the world went weird. Again.

The College-approved wizard finished chanting and Vanderwald looked at him.

‘Is that it? Have you reversed it?’

The crimson-robed figure shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It’s never easy with–,’ he turned his gaze on Mazlocke, who was shifting uncomfortably in the grip of two surprisingly burly security mages, and his voice hardened, ‘–unlicensed wizards.’

Vanderwald was struck by the contrast between the two. The College wizard was resplendent in embroidered robes, and power crackled from his eyes. Mazlocke, by contrast, was simply shabby.

‘How did that idiotic orc think this fool was a real wizard?’ he asked.

The College wizard raised his staff and uttered more arcane syllables. He turned back to the coach. ‘Actually, this sort of thing happens surprisingly often. Enthusiastic amateurs who think a College education is optional, not realising that the only thing standing between turning a player into a frog and sucking the stadium into the Realm of Chaos can be the knowledge we provide.’

Vanderwald paled. ‘That could have happened?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the wizard cheerfully, making shapes in the air with his staff that glowed with power. ‘Remember that incident with the Schonburg Sentinels? The entire town’s just a crater now. That was one like him.’ He gestured back to Mazlocke. ‘Right, that should be it now.’

Vanderwald glanced at the bodies of the fan and the cheerleader, whoever they contained right now. ‘Do you two feel any different?’

They just gazed blankly at him. He thought there might be a bit of drool around their mouths.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I suppose something’s happening.’

Juliana blinked. Her vision cleared and she was standing by the side of the pitch, with Coach Vanderwald waving his hand in her face.

‘Coach?’ she said. ‘Did you see? Did you see what I did? I scored.’

‘I don’t think it matters, really,’ Vanderwald said dismissively. ‘We’ll have to replay the match after what this idiot did.’ He slapped the orc coach on the head with the back of his hand.

‘But… I scored. I won us the match. I was a player.’

‘Oh, don’t be stupid, girl. You’re, well, a girl. You can’t play Blood Bowl.’

‘Is that so?’ said a voice from behind him. He turned and gaped up at a very tall, very well muscled and very angry looking woman wearing what looked like a dress made of brightly coloured feathers.

‘And just who are you, madam?’ he asked in the moments before she punched him in the face.

‘Patronising patriarchal prat.’ She turned to face Juliana. ‘You were in the body of the player out there? The one who scored?’

Juliana nodded.

‘You were very good. I could use a player like you.’ She produced a small card from somewhere in her feathers. ‘I’m the head coach of the New World Warriors, a team from the Lustrian League. How do you fancy becoming an Amazon?’

Juliana smiled.

Johann was sitting by the touchline, the ball in his hand. He pulled himself to his feet, readjusting to his own body and wondered if there was any place in the world for a male cheerleader.

One minute Ghurk was sitting on top of his own shoulders enjoying the ride, the next he was back in control of his own heavily muscled body, jumping up and down on the mangled remains of an orc. He stopped and looked around. He felt something on his shoulder and reached up, grabbing it. He hung the goblin in front of his face for a second, then casually tossed it away with the force of a crossbow firing a quarrel.

Goblin flew. He was happier than he’d ever been. He’d been an ogre, taking out all his years of frustrations on the orcs who’d been mean to him. And now he was flying. It was the best day ever. He put his head down and spread his arms, and shouted, ‘Wheeeeeeeeee!’

Gerhardt’s vision turned multi-coloured, then went back to normal, just in time to see a goblin in a battered metal helmet flying towards his stomach at immense speed. Not for the first time that day, he screamed.

Kurt woke up lying on his back. He blinked and tried to look around, but couldn’t move his head. Above him was a high wooden ceiling, arched and criss-crossed with ornate beams carved with doves. The last thing he remembered was spinning in the air and flying towards the crowd, then… pain. Pain. It came flooding back, and he screamed. A face swam into view above him. It was Juliana. He tried to speak, but she shushed him.

‘It’s okay, Kurt. You’re in the Temple of Shallya,’ she said. ‘You – well, your body – got hurt really badly. The sisters think it’ll take months for you to heal.’ She grimaced. ‘And you might never play again. I just wanted to say, before I headed off to play in the Lustria League, that if you recover enough, there’ll be a place for you as a cheerleader for my new team. Maybe. I’m sure Johann will put in a good word for you anyway. He’s nice like that.’

And then she was gone. Kurt lay in silence – not that he had much choice – until another voice broke his reverie. A very familiar voice, one he’d last heard speaking in his own voice.

‘Hello, roomie!’ it said. ‘This is amazing. I can’t believe I get to share a room with my favourite Blood Bowl player ever. And since most of my ribs were broken, I might be here for months. This is going to be great!’

Jim Johnson looked up at his ogre companion, glad to be comfortably back in his own undead body.

‘Well, that did turn out to be quite a match, didn’t it, Bob?’ he asked brightly, grinning into the camra-warlock’s glowing eyes.

‘I dunno, Jim. It’s not like we were really paying attention,’ Bob shrugged. ‘We were a bit busy getting to know each other better.’

‘Please don’t phrase it like that, Bob. It’s very distasteful,’ Jim said through his grimace.

‘Well, one good thing came from all this, Jim.’

‘Oh, and what’s that?’

‘Well, you know that saying that if you want to understand someone, you should walk a mile in their shoes?’

‘Yes, Bob.’

‘Well, now that I’ve been you, I know why you’re such an uptight, humourless git, Jim.’

‘Oh, and why is that?’

‘Your shoes are far too tight. I don’t think I even could walk a mile in them.’

Jim sighed.

‘Thanks, Bob. And thanks to you viewers at home for sticking with us through the drama in this match between… some team and some other team. We’ll see you again soon.

‘From the Light’s Hope Stadium in Talabheim, good night.’

About the Author

Graeme Lyon is the author of the Space Marine Battles novella Armour of Faith and a host of Warhammer 40,000, Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer short stories including ‘The Carnac Campaign: Sky Hunter’, ‘Kor’sarro Khan: Huntmaster’, ‘Black Iron’, ‘The Eighth Victory’, ‘The Sacrifice’ and ‘Bride of Khaine’. He hails from East Kilbride in Scotland, but lives and works in Nottingham.

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.

Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2017. Mazlocke’s Cantrip of Superior Substitution, 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: 978-1-78572-641-5

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